The Flatmate
by attica
Summary: After the Ministry seizes all of Draco Malfoy's possessions - including his beloved Malfoy Manor - he takes up drinking and finds himself taking up temporary residence at Hermione Granger's flat in Wizarding London. But what neither of them expect is that a lot can happen in 139 days in such close quarters - even the impossible. DHr. COMPLETE!
1. Part 1

**Part 1**

**Day 139**

He hadn't seen the fist coming, and perhaps it was the element of surprise that held the full effect of the situation. Or maybe it was the actual fist-hitting-face action that did him in.

Yes, that could be it.

It was getting to be a somewhat violent week for Draco.

He clutched his jaw, feeling the reverberations of his punch – almost like little tiny fists smacking up against his face, simultaneously. Repeatedly. It buzzed painfully, and in all honesty: yes, his eyes did water a little from the excruciating blow, and no, he would never tell a soul that his punch made his stomach careen in his body. He still had his dignity to think of, after all.

"_What_ the _fuck, Weasley_?" he managed to spit, blood spotting the floor under him. He tried to lock his jaw back in place, but the pain was simply too much.

He wished significant moments of pain (such as these) came with warnings. Who would've thought that falling in love would end up causing him so much trouble? It was ridiculous. It was _beyond_ ridiculous. In fact, he was convinced it was so ridiculous that there wasn't even a word created to grasp its full ridiculousness in the English language just yet. And there were what – more than a billion words in it alone?

Wait a minute. Here was a word: Pathetic.

ooo

**Day 1**

There was yelling in other room – explosive yelling. And it didn't help, either, that he had a pounding headache from all the liquor he'd ingested in the past five hours, rotting away in some mangy pub, as if he was just some down-in-the-mud average joe.

He slumped into the couch, which was a great deal more comfortable from his past position lying face-down on the stone floor of a back alley – a little lumpy still, though, and stiff. This told him that it hadn't been used much. Awfully surprising for a woman who'd been living here for the past three years, unless she'd recently purchased a new couch because the other hadn't been quite up to par. Which was understandable. Sofas were sometimes terribly disappointing things. A lot of things in life were.

"What are you saying, Harry? What are you thinking – asking me if he can _stay here_? Are you seriously demented?"

"Hermione, he's just got evicted!"

"Oh, and let's pretend this isn't just karma finally catching up to him, hm?" He could almost hear the eyeroll behind that one. Which meant it had been a big one.

"Merlin, Hermione. Let's not be so insensitive."

"Oh, _I'm_ being insensitive, am I? Then what about _you_, Harry? Why can't he stay over at _your_ place if you're so keen on making sure he's comfortable?"

"I've got Ron, Hermione, you know that."

"So what?"

"Three's a crowd. And, besides, he hasn't quite gotten warmed up to him yet—"

"_Your_ problem, not mine."

"Hermione, it'll only be for a short while – just until he gets himself all sorted out again. I'm having a bit of trouble with the bank trying to figure out exactly what's happening with his inheritance and his estate, but if you could just—"

"I still can't believe you're even asking me this! Harry, this is _unacceptable_. He _can't_ stay here, do you hear me?"

Their shrieking voices pierced through like a blade drilling a hole through his skull. He groaned, digging his face into the pillow. It smelled something like a fresh mountain breeze. Then, struggling with all his might, he craned his neck up and looked around. Everything was impeccable, and in its individual place. It had a very minimalist vibe. It figured. She didn't seem like she had very much in her life to do with, in the first place. Just her alphabetically organized books charmed with some Anti-Dust charm and her lumpy, awkward old couch probably purchased from Bed, Bath and Bad Taste (on clearance).

He dug his face back into her pillow, wanting to plug his ears. He'd search for his wand but he'd probably left it on the floor somewhere. He felt like his head was being bludgeoned and he was in so much pain that he didn't even care that he should be completely and utterly offended by the conversation happening in the other room, or be quite annoyed at the fact that they didn't even bother to keep their voices down for a bit of cordiality. So what if Granger loathed him? He was still a guest here, wasn't he?

Harry Potter, who had – up until recently – never been quite smooth with the ladies, did not raise his voice like she did. He held his temper and spoke in soothing, calming tones in an effort to placate her, but it did not hold out to much use, because she was getting as much use from her vocal chords as she could. Draco winced when he tried to be reasonable with her and she got unbearably shrill. Bitch.

He thought about how calm everything would be if he was dead. No yelling, no pounding headache. Because with the terrible banging in his skull, as if there was a chimp somewhere clashing cymbals against his head, he didn't know how long he could stand it here. Though, to be honest, nowhere else seemed as comfortable as this bumpy, sickly couch was.

"I swear you won't even know he's here. You'll be at work anyway."

"So you think that's a good reason to throw him in here and let him _bum_ around?"

Draco really wanted to say something. For one: he did not bum around. Second: Potter did not necessarily "throw" him in here… more like carried, and dragged, because he'd passed out in a back alley somewhere, like all good drunks do. But the more he tried to think, the more the glaring colors swirled around in the back of his eyelids, and the more his head ached. Opening his mouth was a challenge he felt he was not ready for just yet. So he just lay there, facedown, utterly miserable.

They kept at it, like an old couple. Funny, because that's certainly what normal folk with any sense of intelligence would assume they were: an old couple. Granger was quite old womanly, the sort that had an impending obscene purchase of lots of cats sitting on her wallet, and that sort that would put plastic covers on the furniture.

But the puzzling thing was, they weren't. No, not Potter and Granger. Any person with a good pair of eyes and a sense of right and wrong would certainly be right to assume that they were together – written in the stars, as the old saying goes – yet also wrong, because they simply weren't. Which baffled _him_, at least, if not the whole of the wizarding world, because he could not think of anybody more insane and infuriating for Potter than Granger, and anybody more insane and infuriating for Granger than Potter – and oddly, it worked. In concept, perhaps. But not in reality. But really, if Draco had been the Stayed-up-all-night-and-pondered-all-of-life's-mysteries sort of man, it certainly would be one of those topics that would have kept him up for weeks.

Suddenly, he heard of the slamming of the door – he flinched, groaning. Then an abrupt force had taken him by his shoulders and lifted his face from the lumpy couch, and he found himself staring up at Granger, who was red-faced and angry.

"Does he look like he's in any condition to go out like this?" he heard Potter say from behind him.

Draco managed a snort through his nose. "Sod off, Potter. My mother says I'm beautiful just the way I am."

Both bickering parties ignored him. "He smells _awful_," Granger hissed.

"And you," Draco said, "are a great big bitch."

"Hermione," he heard Potter sigh from behind him. "Think of this as a favor. Please, Hermione. Let him stay here just for a little while until I can work everything out. Then he'll be out, I promise."

There was silence, and Draco squinted up at Granger, the room swirling all around him. He felt like a fish in a bowl that someone was moving from once place to another, with the water bouncing from side to side. His eyes were foggy but he could see her wild hair, dark and untamable. Like a beast.

She let out a loud sigh, and her tense shoulders collapsed. "Fine," she said tersely. "Fine."

Potter's grip on his shoulders loosened. Draco's head slumped back down, his eyes closing. "I knew I could count on you, Hermione. Thank you. I mean it."

"He can stay here," she said in a rigid, unflinching voice, "but on the condition that he _follows my rules_."

"All right, that's fair." And then he let go of him, and Draco collapsed back on the couch, facedown. He said something against the cushion, but it was intelligible. He sensed from the silence that there was hugging taking place in the room right at the moment.

Once Potter was gone, having set him up on the couch and given him a lame sort of warning ("Be nice. Put the seat up before you pee. Ask before you finish the milk"), Draco sat on the couch, nearly sober. But not really. Granger was glaring at him like an old schoolteacher that had just caught him sleeping in class. Or worse. Perhaps sneaking glances at girls' knickers every time they bent over to retrieve fallen pencils.

"Let me guess," Draco grunted. "I'm indebted to you forever."

"You're indebted to _Harry_ forever," she corrected unpleasantly.

"Ah," he said, in a mockingly light expression. "How pleasant. Now I have something in common with the whole of the wizarding world. Perhaps I can send in for my members-only jacket now."

"You think this is funny?" she spat distastefully. "You living here – there's going to be a serious set of rules. Once you break one, you're out. On the street. I don't care if you're going to be one of those cardboard beggars sitting in your own excrement. Got it?"

"Granger, you sure do know how to break a heart that's just been mended."

"Oh, shut up."

Suddenly, he sat up, peering at her. Almost so fast that the room spun – and it did, which was why he had to take a few seconds to get the room back in focus before he could start speaking again. "Why did you agree to this?"

She pressed her lips together. Her eyes flickered down his front and then up again. "I felt sorry for you. Look at you," she said, scowling. "You're pathetic. You're drunk, and dirty, and you smell like you'd just gone and pissed all over yourself. I'm going to have to completely disinfect my couch after you've gone and draped yourself all over it. Then, perhaps – burn it."

Draco shook his head, slowly. Partly to make sure his brains were still intact. "That's not it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, "that's not why you agreed to let me live here."

Her brows nearly met in the middle of her forehead. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Just admit it, Granger," he slurred, leaning back. He tried to act like Humphrey Bogart. Or like James Dean. Maybe they were right – maybe knowledge _was_ power. Or, at least, right now, at this moment, it certainly felt like it. "You're in love. With Potter. You're in love with the prick just like every single sodding woman that's ever picked up a Witch Weekly."

"That bloody prick," she huffed, "just saved you from sleeping on the street."

He grunted. "I don't hear you denying it."

"I am not," she said through her teeth, "in love with _Harry_."

"Right," he snorted. "And I'm not homeless and drunk out of my wits."

"Rule number one," she said firmly, "no remarks about my relationship with Harry. At all."

"Well, can I talk about how ugly he is?"

"No," she said. "Absolutely not."

"His god-awful body odor?"

"No."

"What about his face impediment – that stupid scar of his?"

She sent him a look that he was almost certain could have single-handedly burned witches at Salem.

"Well," he grumbled, leaning his head back again. "Obviously we've just established that living here isn't going to be very fun now, is it? Tell me, Granger, why are you so hell-bent on making the rest of us so miserable?"

She ignored him, and he wasn't surprised, because she was just amazingly good at that sometimes. "You know, I would've thought – any normal person would be grateful for what he just did for you. But you're not just 'any normal person', are you? You're the Anti-Christ, in flesh and bone."

"Negative," he replied, not bothering to look at her. His eyelids felt heavy as he faced the ceiling. The room swirled for a moment with an array of colors, like a child stirring the rainbow in a fun cup. "I believe you are talking about the malicious old Dark Lord, God rest his soul, where it is burning for all eternity in hell." He paused. "Gratitude wasn't a term born into my vocabulary," he said dryly – but honestly, too. He doubted she noticed the little silver lining of sincerity in that little statement he just made, though. He thought Granger was one of those types who rarely saw the good in people after she'd made up her mind about them – rigid, unflinching. Also, interesting fact: she had a stick ever-lodged somewhere up her bum. He could tell her he'd decided to become a shepherd and lovingly take care of little sheep and protect them from evil wolves and she wouldn't hear him, not even in the slightest bit.

She was silent. "Your heart doesn't even pump blood, does it?" she said, rather quietly, and in slight awe. "You're just iron and ore. No flesh. No bone."

"Liquor," he added on, swallowing hard. He could still taste a bit of it on his tongue. The devil's poison. "That, too."

She scoffed in disgust. "Being a drunk is nothing to be proud of."

"But it _is_ an accomplishment, don't you agree?"

He could very well admit that having conversations with him as a person, via vernacular, wasn't a very enjoyable experience for most people. It was an acquired taste that came with excessive amounts of alcohol; the other drunks at the pub thought he was witty, and charming, and one had even confessed his undying love for him one rather blurry Thursday night. But he could see why he wasn't the type of person people talked to about the weather, or useless things like that. He was simply an infuriating person. God knows why he was made that way; it must've been all that liquor his mother consumed when he'd still been in her womb. It would certainly figure, wouldn't it, though?

He dazedly looked at his arm.

"I wonder," he murmured to himself. "If I slit my wrists, would blood come out, or vodka?" He looked at her. "Hey, Granger, would you like to partake in a fun little experiment?"

"You can sleep in the guest bedroom," she said, sending him a look that revealed a negative response to his little proposition. "Take a bath. And absolutely no alcohol is permitted in my flat, do you hear me?"

He slumped back into the couch. "I haven't forgotten we're in No Fun Land. Believe me. In the past two minutes I've tried at least twenty times."

"I'll explain more of the rules in the morning. When you're _sober_," she sneered. Then she got up, leaving the room. He could hear the pitter-patter of her soft-soled slippers; they were the furry, beige kind. Then, suddenly, they stopped.

"You don't have any things to get from your pretentious little Manor?"

"Nope," he said, closing his eyes. "I'm not allowed on the premises, seeing as how the Ministry's seized it. Unless breaking and entering is your cup of tea, I think I'm the only one you can expect invading in your little quaint place here."

ooo

**Day 5**

"You don't like syrup?"

"_No_, I don't like syrup, Potter. And here I thought we knew everything about each other, like what our favorite colors are, and which members of the Quidditch team we'd trade for whom." Draco sniffled. "I think I need to reassess where our relationship is going."

Granger rolled her eyes, loudly clinking her spoon on her mug.

"Really? What's my favorite color?" Potter asked quietly, curious.

"Green," Draco said, taking a bite of his waffle. "Like your eyes."

"Remind me again why he isn't living with _you_, Harry," Granger remarked, a bit irritated. "I've had to sit here for the past twenty minutes and watch you two make googly eyes at each other. If I'd known this was going to happen, I would have at least brought the paper."

"Hey!" Draco protested. "I thought this was an household accepting of all sorts of love."

"I think he's still drunk," Potter muttered, ducking his head down to sip his coffee.

Draco nodded. "I did consume enough liquor to keep me drunk for about two uninterrupted weeks."

"Miraculous that you're still alive," Granger scoffed, before muttering to herself, stirring her coffee. "I now know that there is a God. And that he is a cruel being."

"I can't tell whether you're being sarcastic, but yes, it is a miracle. Perhaps that 'cruel being' has decided to go through with his plan for me."

"And exactly what plan would that be?" she curiously inquired.

"It involves a Volkswagen car dealership."

Potter's eyebrows rose up his forehead. "Ambitious for a poor, homeless man."

"I prefer the title 'Formerly rich and had a mansion man,'" Draco dryly said. "And it _is_ ambitious – can I tell you why? Because I was reading in the loo the other day, and I came across the phrase 'Reach for the moon. You just may land on a star.' It inspired me. It really did."

Granger hid her smile behind her coffee mug, which was impressive, since it was only a minute ago that she'd revealed how cruel it was that he was still alive. And had insulted God.

"Enough said," Potter said, nodding.

"Precisely. Enough said."

Potter rubbed his nose with his hand, sweeping back his black hair before he coughed. "Listen, Hermione, I won't be able to make it to our little lunch."

Draco's eyes swung over to Granger, who looked up from her waffle, her face still for a moment. Then she brought her eyes down again, clearing her throat. "Oh, that's perfectly fine. Did Andy give you those papers late again?"

"Um," Potter said, "not exactly. I met this girl, at the market, and her name's Stacy. I completely forgot about our plans for today and I sort of asked her out for lunch. For today."

Granger blinked. "But Harry, we've planned this lunch since last month, we were supposed to discuss Ron's party—"

"Exactly, see? We can just discuss it right now, while we're having breakfast. That's all right, isn't it? Now what was it Ron wanted?"

She opened her mouth, as if she was going to say something more, before she closed it again. She grabbed her spoon and scooped up another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. "A stripper," Granger said matter-of-factly, obviously a little ruffled by Potter's impromptu lunch date with someone else. "Ron wanted a _stripper_."

ooo

**Day 10**

"Hermione," Potter said, stirring his coffee, "sending him to AA just to get him out of here because you aren't comfortable him being alone in your flat while you're not here isn't exactly the best choice."

"Harry, I'm not comfortable with _that man_—"

"Yes, you already said that."

"He _is_ a drunk," she pointed out, quite convincingly – save for the fact that he'd been sober for ten days since he'd stepped into the entirely beige-colored section of the Martha Stewart department from home décor hell.

Draco opened the door, the Daily Prophet rolled up in his hand, and he stepped out. Potter and Granger instantly ended their conversation, staring at him. Then Granger looked down, sipping her coffee.

"What's the matter, Granger? Afraid I'll steal your tea cozies while you're gone?"

"God, Hermione. Really. You've got to get your walls thickened," Potter said. She only rolled her eyes as Draco laid the newspaper on the table, looking at the two.

"Don't get me wrong. It was a riveting conversation to listen to while on the loo." He sighed. "Well, Mummy and Daddy? Are you sending me off to the big bad institute or what?" He shrugged, but sent her a dirty look. "She _is_ right. I _am_ a drunk. And it is awfully boring in this place. It's like the decorating channel threw up in here. In _earth tones_." He gagged.

She glared at him. "Well, seeing as how you've clearly expressed your feelings on your current living arrangements, then maybe it'd be a lot better for the both of us if you'd get your grimy arse—"

"Now, now, let's not be brash," Potter intercepted. "Children," he said warningly.

"He's an ungrateful little twit," she explained. "All he does is whine and complain and _insult_ me—"

"I don't know if you've heard, but that is just the _way I am_," Draco defended. He looked at Potter and nudged his shoulder. "Go on. Tell her, Potter. Tell her that's just the way I am."

"The pair of you," he said, looking weary, "are acting like idiots. And children. Idiotic children, basically. There is nothing more unattractive than a pair of idiotic children bickering."

"Well, there's B.O.," Draco muttered.

"See that?" Granger said, jumping the gun. "I don't understand why you're doing this, Harry – he doesn't deserve it. I say, let him stay out in the street and drown himself in alcohol – it's the life he wants, and him being here just chains the rest of us down—"

"You don't think I'm _drowning_ in all this _beige_?" he snapped. "It makes me want to throw up. Ever heard of color, Granger? Roy G. Biv called, asking if you'd ever gotten the memo that there's more than _one_ color—"

She turned to Harry. "Harry, just because he saved your life doesn't mean—"

"Malfoy, Hermione," Potter said, his hands raised, mediating. "We're getting nowhere with this. Maybe, to make sure we all survive from this, one of you should be sedated. Which one should it be?"

"Granger," Draco shouted, at the same time Granger yelled "Malfoy."

Potter rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "Malfoy, I've talked to the Ministry."

Draco perked up. "You mean the heartless fiends that stole my home and therefore sent me into a drunken stupor of misery and despair?"

"Yes," he said. "No progress on them giving it back to you just yet, but I've talked to a few insiders, and they said they could try to get more information…"

"Is it money?" Draco asked. "Is that what they want? They're holding it for ransom? Not a particularly smart idea, since they've closed up my account as well, savage bastards. Some brains they've got working there at the Ministry. They'd probably give Weasley a run for his money."

"No, I believe they're holding it… just to spite you."

Confusion spread across Draco's face. His words were familiar, all right, but not in this context at all. They scrambled around his brain like Boggle. "_What_?"

Granger burst into laughter, nearly tipping her coffee over. Draco ignored her, looking directly at Potter.

"Apparently," he sighed, "you're not the Ministry's favorite person. Your father…"

"Oh, Christ. This is about my _father_? What are they, gravediggers?"

"In some aspects, yes. They have reason to believe that the Manor never belonged to him in the first place, what with all the cheating and lying he did. Apparently he hasn't paid his taxes in years."

He had to sit down for this – logically, he should've seen this coming. His father was a bad man, the kind that starts up cults and kills innocent people and kicks dying puppies. But whoever said that the sins of the father were handed down to the son really hadn't been lying. He sort of hated it – a lot, with a passion. So he just sat there in silence, trying to wrap his mind around it.

In sobriety, it was easier to think, but more painful. Everything got to be so complicated and tangled up, and sometimes painfully simple – except for a few little crevices and niches. But this was what that was; sort of like staring at a white light until it got to be painful to look at. Simple, but painful. He felt like he was grasping at straws – or rather, nothing. Nothing at all. Or maybe, while he was here, a fistful of beige.

"Sorry," Potter muttered. He looked really deeply sorry about it that Draco – truthfully – found it a little awkward and uncomfortable. For a second he thought he was going to reach out and hold his hand or something, but that didn't happen. Thank God. He didn't know what he'd do with himself if Potter had started going around holding his hand, on top with his father practically shitting all over his future. And wasn't it funny? His father was dead, long gone, maybe even quartered up and buried in the four corners of the world to prevent possible reincarnation, yet his ghost hovered over him loud and clear.

He hated how his father haunted him even now. As if he didn't already have to look in the mirror every day and convince himself he was different. Maybe not _completely_ different, but at least a little sliver. And that was all that mattered, right? Draco was not his father. Draco was not his father.

Oh, he didn't know. He wasn't sure anymore.

Suddenly, he felt a burn in his throat – thirst.

"I need a drink," Draco said lowly.

"You can't," Granger said, though her voice didn't hold the sharp edge it had before. Which he hated, even more. On some level, there was a possibility she felt sorry for him – meaning they weren't equals. One was lower than the other. He didn't think he could stand being _beneath_ anyone, most especially the girl that had closely resembled a beaver all throughout his childhood and had built her lonely little dam out of everything _beige_. Was there ever a more boring color in the history of the world? It depressed him, even more so.

"I don't allow alcohol in my flat, remember?" she said, glancing at Potter.

"Well, then, I'm going out," Draco said, standing up.

"You can't," Granger said again. "Drinking your problems away won't do any good, Malfoy. It won't make the problem disappear, like a magic trick."

"Besides," Potter said, quietly, "this was part of our deal. You have to stay sober until we get your place back."

"What a stupid deal," he hissed. "In the international rules of deal-making, I believe it doesn't count if the receiver of the deal is intoxicated." He glared at the both of them, and Potter didn't budge. "Then excuse me," he said bitterly, "while I attempt to ponder what further purpose I have on this earth with my single most beloved asset taken away by a bunch of grudge-holding, spite-spewing, authority-abusing dogs."

ooo

**Day 14**

There was knocking at his door.

At first he didn't believe his ears, so he didn't get up. Didn't even do so much as move. For the past four days they'd left him to himself, though sometimes he saw the shadow of feet standing in front of his room from the little crevice underneath his door, probably to check if there was some rotting, pungent stench coming from his room – a clear indication he'd killed himself. But he'd locked the door, so it wasn't as if they could do anything else. They had never knocked before, though, besides their little shadow game.

He'd never been depressed before, but he reckoned it felt something like this. He'd read books about it (more like skimmed – the self-help section of the bookstore wasn't a place he liked to be seen in, much less hang around in) when his mother had been in her… _state_, after the war. He'd always been intrigued, knowing that people could feel as if their life was meaningless and void and that the world would be much better off without them – or rather, the opposite for extremely selfish cases: that they would be much better off without the world. He didn't know which category he belonged in yet, though. That required some more sulking and wallowing in his misery.

But after not moving (from the not believing part), it happened again. _Knock. Knock. Knock_. Timid, and hesitant.

"Go away," he called out. "I'm horribly depressed and seriously considering ending my life in a very dramatic, tabloid-trashy way." He caught a whiff of himself. "And I smell."

There was a moment of silence, and for a second he was confident that his last remark had scared her off. But then he heard a slight jingling, and saw his doorknob moving, and suddenly the door was open. Granger stood there, in a white t-shirt and jeans, with a key in her hand.

"Now that," he drawled, "could be used for evil. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with you having a key to be able to come in and out of my room as you very well please."

She rolled her eyes, before putting the key back in her pocket. She then proceeded to close the door behind her – but then stopped, thinking, and left the door slightly ajar.

She turned to him, taking a small step. She looked a little wary to be in his room, but put her warrior face back on.

"How much did Potter pay you?" Draco said, not looking at her.

"Nothing," she said.

"Liar. You are the worst liar I've ever seen, besides Potter. Makes sense, actually. It fits into that whole moral, Hero-message Potter radiates with: good, impeccable soul, hence lousy liar. Too pure for it." He licked his chapped lips. "You lot make me sick."

She pursed her lips, then sighed. "He's taking me out to dinner."

"Where?"

"The Mighty Aphrodite."

"Splendid." He paused, waiting for her to start talking again. "I believe that was the cue for you to start reciting the speech he made you memorize in exchange for that expensive, classy dinner."

"Malfoy," she said wearily, "there's no memorized speech, okay? He would've come down here himself, but he's… preoccupied at the moment."

"On a date, huh?"

He didn't have to look at her face to know how she felt about it. It was amazing how transparent she made herself out to be sometimes that even he, a third party with no interest in her well-being whatsoever, could see right through her. "Yes, but that's beside the point. It isn't healthy for you to be lying around here, wasting away, just because the Ministry—"

"If you're trying to justify something, or _inspire_ me, you're better off buying a Hallmark card. They took my home – the only thing I ever had, and the only thing that I quite possibly cared about. Don't tell me what's healthy or not. Tell me, Granger, have you ever had your home taken away from you?"

"No," she said. "But there are worse things."

"Like what? Being parentless? Being homeless? Being universally un-liked by every single person in the world? Because I daresay, I've got a foot in every one of those categories." She was silent. "Look, Granger, you opened the door with your shiny little key. You can skip the obligation. Just scoot on back to the phone and tell Potter that you tried, don your fancy little dress, and get your fancy little dinner. It's _my_ problem; you don't need to come in here with your valiant white steed, all right? I don't need to be rescued. And I certainly don't need you to be the one trying to rescue me."

"Is it your life's goal to be an utter arsehole?" she fumed. "You've got people here trying to help you yet you treat them like dirt. I think you've made it perfectly clear that you don't appreciate a single _good_ thing—"

"But see, that's the thing, isn't it, Granger? You don't _care_. You don't _care_ about me – you're only obligated to, because—"

"_Don't say it_," she said through her teeth. "Don't you _dare_ say it, if you plan on sleeping in a bed tonight." He looked down, and he could see her fists shaking beside her. Everything looked glassy around him. "I tried. I really did. Waste away here for all I care."

And then she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. But he watched as his doorknob began to jingle around again; she was locking him in.

ooo

**Day 22**

"Son, really, you've got to be thoughtful about these things." She was smoking. In his room. He didn't quite remember whether Granger had told him smoking was prohibited – she really only focused on the No Liquor rule. "They're only trying to help you."

"I don't need help," he said, staring at his mother as she blew a white puff out of her thin lips. She looked vibrant – dressed in emerald green robes, with her white-blond hair flowing straight down her shoulders. On her fingers were the many indications of her exact wealth – huge stones of gems and jewels, glittering in the light, and standing out from the bleak beige coloring of the room.

She snorted. "I beg to differ. You need all sorts of help, Draco." She took a sip from her drink. He wondered how it got there. "Now, this room is horrible. No taste in it whatsoever – what _is_ this terrible color?"

He snorted. "You should see the rest of the house."

"This is a crime, what she's done to this place." She took another puff. "Now, whatever happened to that lovely Pansy Parkinson? I say, I just had tea with her mother a week ago – showed me their lovely new estate. It's large, but certainly not larger than ours. Of course, I didn't mention that to her. Didn't want to burst her pretty little bubble."

He stared at her, looking at her drink.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked him.

He squinted his eyes shut, breathing hard. Then he opened them again. She was there, holding her cigarette, staring at him with a bemused expression.

"You're not here," he said. "You can't possibly."

"Of course I am," she said. "I'm right here, son." She looked around. "Going a little loony, are you? Must be all this awful coloring around here. And – you look ill. Have you been eating?"

ooo

"So he finally shows his face," Potter remarked, as he stepped out.

Draco stopped, looking at him.

"And from the loo, as well. Don't you look radiant."

Draco gave him a strange look. "Are you hitting on me, Potter? Trying to maybe boost up my self-esteem by giving me disturbing, unwanted attention? Clever concept, but it won't work. I like girls."

"Look," he said to him, "it's really not good for you to be sulking about like this, Malfoy. You being an arsehole is better than this. At least it didn't feel awkward and wrong to hate you."

"Granger told you to say that, didn't she?"

He shook his head. "She won't even say a word about you. She's angry as hell."

"But she won't kick me out."

Potter shrugged, and motioned for them to head into the kitchen. Draco followed.

"You know, she does an awful lot for you. It's scary, and frightening."

He sent him a peculiar glance. "She's my best friend. And she's a good person. It may be a foreign concept to you, Malfoy, but this is the sort of stuff good people do."

"Christ, I forget. I'm hanging with the Moral Code Club now." He popped open a soda, hearing the fizzing liquid inside. He stared inside and felt a deep longing in his gut for some hard liquor. Being sober was hard work, especially when plunged into a rotting hole of miserable consequences handed down by the father's (dead) hand. "Any news from the Ministry?"

He was hesitant. Draco knew this wasn't going to be good. "None. Your file is buried underneath all the other thousand files, so they won't get to it for quite a while. But don't give up hope – at least, not yet. I still have some leverage, so—"

"Merlin, am I honored. Harry James Potter pulling strings for _me_?" Draco said mockingly, taking another sip.

"You make fun of it, but you're grateful," Potter said.

"According to Granger, I'm not grateful for anything."

Potter looked at him, long and hard. "You ought to be nicer to her, you know. This is an awful lot she's doing—"

"For _you_," Draco interrupted. "There's no possible way she's doing this for me, or for the sake of being righteous. She _hates_ me. No person in their right mind would set up house with someone they absolutely hated down to their festering, maggot-filled core."

"Can you blame her for hating you? You're an arsehole."

"Now tell me," Draco said dryly, "how you really feel."

"Just trying to put things in perspective, that's all. All I'm saying is, maybe try doing something nice for her."

"Gee, see, I'd try retrieving that large wooden stick up her—"

Potter slapped his hand against Draco's mouth, firmly latching it there. Draco's eyes bulged, trying to jerk away. "No," Potter said, seriously and gravely. "_No_."

ooo

**Day 25**

"Listen, Draco, son," she said. She was combing her hair now, her cigarette still smoking on the ashtray. "You ought to make of this the best you can, do you know what I mean? I've seen the girl, and though she is horrid plain, she looks like a good person. Uptight, and prudish, and should be jailed for such horrible furnishings, but nevertheless… I say, what _is_ that awful smell?"

He was just passing by, and she'd just happened to leave her door open. So he snuck a peek. It was the same – boring, with a set of white daisies and sunflowers in a vase near her bed. Painted beige. Books, books, more books. Everything was neatly folded and pressed. Then, by her mirror, was a framed picture of her and Potter. How curious that it wasn't the three of them – Weasley, Potter, and Granger, as the story goes – but only her and Potter.

Jesus, could she be any more obvious? It was absolutely fucking pitiful.

ooo

**Day 36**

It was raining outside. The water pounded on the windows and he could barely see anything outside of the glass – just gray. Not that there was much of a sight to see in the first place, but the water had washed everything out.

He kept notches on his bedpost for how many days he'd been here. Today marked thirty-six. Little more than a month. He felt this sickening lurch in his stomach about the Ministry business and about exactly how long he'd have to stay here, with no booze, and no girls, and no fun whatsoever. He'd started talking to Granger again, and at first she'd been as cold as stone, but then she'd started to relax a bit – courtesy of Potter, he reckoned. If he wasn't so scared of being homeless, he'd have made a remark about how Granger seemed to obey Potter like a little dog by now.

He was reading the Daily Prophet when he heard the door open, and the quiet swishing of her umbrella. He was reading about the new cemetery site where a few of his friends had been buried (the Parkinsons, for example) when she came in, her hair drizzled with a few drops of rain. Her nose was pink and so were her cheeks.

"Another unproductive day, I see?" she said to him, as she removed her coat. He spotted she was wearing a crisp white blouse, with black trousers. No emblems or anything. Just plain. Just like her personality.

"I'd hardly call it that."

She rolled her eyes and went over to the cupboard – to make herself some hot tea, he presumed. He heard the creak of the hinge, and then silence.

"My cups and bowls are all…" she faltered.

"I took the duty of organizing your cupboards. I was bored. Listen, can I ask you something?"

She was appalled. "Why on _earth_ did you organize all of my cupboards? I had a system!"

"Well, to be honest with you, _Granger_, your system was terrible." He put down the paper, looking at her, as she vocally searched for her cups. "For Christ's sake, Granger, your cups are to your right, lower shelf. Now, my question."

"No," she said, grabbing her cup, and inspecting it, as if he'd smeared rat poison all over it. "You can't ask me a question."

"And why the hell not?"

"Because a question that needs a question introducing the question cannot possibly be a question I would want to answer."

He ignored her. "Why don't you ever have men over? You know, to pal around. Or whatever they call it. Hit skins."

She sent him a dirty look. "I don't believe that's a question deserving of an answer."

"I think Potter's the only man I've seen come over. Weasley – well, I know all about that. Potter's told him I'm staying here and I'm not Weasley's favorite blond, so there's that. Really, Granger, you've got to get out there."

"Out where?"

"The world."

"Says the man who'd caged himself up in his room sulking in depression for a week."

"I'm over that now. See, why don't we go out? Go to a bar, or something. I can teach you how to reel in the opposite sex at least long enough for you to lead them back to your apartment – and then, well, throw a blindfold over them, because I'm quite positive all of this beige will scare them off right away."

Her eyes narrowed at him, as she fetched the teapot. "I know what you're trying to do, Malfoy – I'm not stupid. Another one of your ploys to get a drink. Did you really believe I'd fall for that one? It's insulting, really. I was Head Girl our seventh year. You could give me a bit of credit."

"If you were feeling nice, then maybe, yes." Then he looked at her, at her starchy shirt. No wrinkles in her outfit whatsoever, just impeccable. A stray curl hovered beside her eye as she set up her teapot on the stove, her eyes focused on her concoction, her cheeks still flushed from the cold. "Granger, I've never seen you have any fun."

She snorted. "My definition of fun is much more different than—"

"The rest of the world's?" Draco finished off for her. "Now, see, I don't believe that. I believe you find joy in at least some of the things we find joy in, but you just don't indulge in them, because you feel they're below you. Simpleton-like behavior. Am I right or am I right?"

"Neither. You're wrong," she said, appearing amused. "I'm busy. I don't have time to get all dolled up in an obscenely short miniskirt and smear on pounds of make-up in hopes of attracting some slob at a club. I apologize if I've got a little bit more integrity for that."

"Then exactly _how_ do you intend on meeting the man of your dreams?" Draco asked, curious. "Do you think he'll just somehow end up at your doorstep? Fall from the sky, maybe? Or maybe it's simply that you're not looking, because you think you've already found him."

He was watching her closely. She'd frozen in place, the muscles in her shoulders tensed underneath her wrinkle-free cotton shirt. He could see her face in the reflection from the glass window – both their reflections, actually. His taunting expression with his impish-like smirk hovering behind her blank, surprised one. And he watched as it turned into something else – the lines on her face became sharp and guarded, and she began to move again. Slowly, at first, and then with forced casualty.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do, Granger. It's perfectly obvious you're utterly in love with Hero Boy. Isn't that another reason why Weasley never comes around here anymore? Took me a while, but all that sitting, caged up in my room wasn't all spent pondering on the uselessness of my being, you know."

She shook her head. "Your head must be so far up your own arsehole if you feel like you can just come in here and start talking about my friendships with such authority."

"Look, I don't mean any trouble." What a strange sentence for him to say. So strange, in fact, that it left a peculiar taste in his mouth. "I just wanted to know if you wanted to talk about it, you know, like… a friend," he said, muttering the last part.

He didn't mention that he saw the look on her face whenever Potter talked about some new girl he'd met, or some date he'd gone on. Sometimes he'd be sitting on the sofa while they talked to each other in the kitchen, and he'd glance over. He didn't understand how Potter could be so blind to the utter suffering in front of him. It was a joy to watch, really. The tension, the forced nonchalance, the desperately-hidden yearning. It was also utterly sickening.

"Or, you know, not."

"How about not?" she said, her voice frigid.

"But we were bonding," he pointed out. "Bonding is good."

She sent him a withering look, before going to her room with her hot cocoa. He stared after her, hearing the slam of her door.

"Frigid bitch."

ooo

**Day 40**

He'd gone to Dervish and Banges. It was not his fault that he'd happened to meet a girl there, and that something happened. They hit it off, like they say – perhaps it had to do with the fact that he wasn't smelly anymore, and he cleaned up quite well. He'd gone to Dervish and Banges to get a few books, since it didn't look like he was going to be doing anything in Granger's Palace of Boredom, and he'd always liked reading books to some extent. Of course, he had to put it on his tab. Nevermind that the Ministry had confiscated all of his funds – he'd pay them back later, when he'd had all of his things back and after he'd gone after each of those bureaucratic bastards in a way that made their testicles shrivel back into their bodies.

ooo

**Day 41**

It was the loud bang that did it. It'd woken them straight up, and she'd even almost fallen off his bed.

He looked in the doorway and there she was. Granger. And she didn't look very happy about his good lay, either. She took one look at the two of them and then she started to yell.

"_What_ in the bloody _hell_ do you think you're doing, Malfoy?"

"Well, as you can see in front of you, Granger—" he began, gesturing to the woman next to him.

"What the hell is this _sock_ doing on the _doorknob_?" she shouted, her face flushed red with anger. He began to feel an inching dread inside of him, like watching the dark rain clouds rolling in for a storm. But he kept his cool. It was the only thing he could do.

"It's code, Granger," he explained dryly. "It means—"

"Well, I know what the bloody hell it means, Malfoy! What I'm asking is how on earth did you get the idea in your daft head that you're allowed to do this _in my flat_?"

"Look, I should probably go," the woman next to him said, gathering up her clothes and making a dash for it. She ducked around Hermione, and Draco got a good last glimpse of her bum. He smirked. Granger flung the sock at him, and it landed straight on his forehead.

"Are you upset because I didn't introduce you? Because I was going to, at breakfast. Her name's Trisha. She's a healer. At least, I think that's what she said. I can't remember. But I know it starts with an H."

"What – makes – you – think – you – can – bring – _girls_ – in – here," she seethed.

"I just thought that, as long as we didn't make too much noise and eat your food without reimbursing you, that it'd be all right."

"_All right?"_ she repeated, in disbelief. "You think bringing girls into a flat you don't even co-own, let alone pay for, is _all right_?"

"Well, when you put it that way—"

"What goes _on_ in that little _skull_ of yours, Malfoy?" she said incredulously, her arms waving about, frustrated. "I'm utterly_amazed_ at how much damage you could possibly do to the people around you. _God_, if Harry hadn't"— It was then she did something rather frightening. She let out this loud shriek, and he jumped in his bed, scared for his life. Then she stormed out, slamming his door.

"God, I want to _kill_ you!" he heard her yell outside.

ooo

**Day 42**

He'd snuck out for some supper when he was sure she wasn't there. He'd just been looking around when he found a note in the rubbish bin – not like he dug in the trash or anything of the sort, but he'd noticed it was Potter's stationery from his office.

He never said he was a gentleman, so he read it. He figured it was from yesterday.

_Dropped by to see if you were home yet. It's 6pm. Wanted to tell you that I can't make dinner tonight. I met this girl, her name's Abby, from the market. Sorry._

_Harry._

_P.S. Also, tried to ring you, but your temp is incompetent. Fire her immediately._

It explained a few things. Such as why she blew such an explosive fuse. Rejected and scorned, she took her anger out on him. And Trisha. It was all Potter's fault.

That woman-shagging pretentious sod.

ooo

**Day 43**

"Hermione told me what happened," Potter said, arranging some things on his desk. He looked up at him, incredulously. "Tell me she was joking. You _seriously_ brought a girl in?"

"You make it seem as if getting a lay once in a while is a crime," Draco muttered, sitting down on the armchair in front of him. "It's not my fault I'm irresistible even if I am homeless."

"Oh, it's not," he said, "but doing it in a flat you don't even _pay_ for…"

"If it makes you feel any better, I fully intend on paying her back for any traumatic experiences she may have experienced during my stay once they release my account back to me. I'll even pay for her therapy or psychiatric treatment for however long she needs it." He tried to smooth a crease out in his trousers. "I'm surprised _you_ aren't paying for it. It's clear to me that she's been in need of it for quite a long time."

"I know this might be a far-fetched idea for someone as socially-inconsiderate as you," Potter said, but have you tried telling her that you're _sorry_?"

Draco gave him a dry look, to which he nodded and said, "Right. How stupid for me to even bring it up."

Draco stared at him. Just stared.

"What?" Potter asked, after a few seconds of silence. "You've stopped blinking. It's scary."

"It's this lighting," Draco replied. "It makes your hair look a little brown. It's fascinating."

He rolled his eyes. "Listen, you've got to make it up to her, all right? It doesn't have to be sorry. I'm sure even uttering those words would somehow cause you to foam from the mouth. But something that at least lets her know you're. . . sorry. That you have a soul. Or part of one. A really tiny part."

"Potter. I am not going to shag Granger, no matter how much you pay me."

"Please shut up before I rethink everything I'm doing for you. I'm going to be honest with you, Malfoy: I'm not entirely sure just how long this Ministry business is going to take. So I suggest you be smart for once and not make any enemies – especially if you're going to be living under her roof. Got it?"

"I hate," Draco said, "all of you. Both individually and collectively. From all angles."

Potter only smiled at him, not fazed the least bit. He figured sentiments such as these from a currently evicted and broke childhood bully were measly and trivial after having faced the Dark Lord in in the battle to end all battles. "You," he only said, "are very welcome, Draco."

ooo

**Day 47**

It took him quite a while to think up something to "make her happy," especially considering his financial cramp. It also took him quite a while to swallow down his pride to even consider doing something like this for her. But Potter was right. Tense living situations (as if it hadn't already been tense before) were horrible, horrible things. He slept with one eye open, thinking she'd come in with her shiny little key and stab him to death with a stiletto heel. Being enemies with Granger was a lot more fun when he wasn't indebted to her. Or living in her house.

"Take her on a picnic," his mother told him one night. "Women love picnics. Just make certain there aren't any big bugs around. There's nothing more unattractive than swatting flies around your face all day long."

So that's exactly what he did. He bit back his pride, and he packed up a little picnic for them. And he met her at work, which clearly disturbed her a little, and he understood why. But he dropped by for lunch with his little picnic basket and they had lunch on the lawn outside her office, because people had been giving them strange looks and whispering amongst themselves and Draco thought that it was hardly an environment to have a picnic lunch in. Negative vibes could ruin everything.

"Harry told you to do this," she said, taking a bite of her sandwich. She looked skeptical, but at least she wasn't ready to bite off his head anymore. Was his mother secretly a genius?

"He didn't give me a step-by-step manual, if that's what you're saying," Draco said smugly. "He said I had to make it up to you, so that you won't kill me in my sleep. I came up with the picnic idea myself. And I made the sandwiches, too."

She nodded, chewing. "Impressive. Peanut butter and jelly. With the crust even cut off. You're quite the homemaker."

See, peculiar thing. When she smiled (and she hardly ever smiled around him, so this was rather new) he realized she didn't have her protruding little beaver teeth anymore. In fact, nothing about her was very beaver-like anymore – not even her hair. Sure, it got to be frizzy when it was humid and when it rained, but it wasn't _beastly_. At least, not anymore.

Draco stared at her as she ate, dressed in her suit. She'd taken off her blazer to sit on it in the grass (typical woman – afraid of grass stains), her hair half pulled back, and he realized how much she'd changed since they'd been in school. She hadn't been this way – at least, not completely. Not the executive type that dressed in boring things and pined after oblivious overglorified idiots with awful facial scarring. No, in fact, her type had been temperamental, freckly idiot redheads. It was mind-boggling. In fact, it made him think about how much _he'd_ changed since they'd been in school.

Well, he no longer had a home (for the time being). They'd frozen his account at Gringott's, so he was also currently broke. He was living with Potter's puppy with the help of Potter. His father wasn't lording over him anymore (at least, in flesh and blood). The Dark Lord was dead. And he was a "good person" now, at least, when he wasn't shagging girls in a flat he didn't own, or even co-own.

In his mind, that was enough to very well indicate how much things had changed since then.

"That look you have on your face is starting to get awfully creepy, Malfoy. Knock it off."

"Say, Granger. If you had to say, who do you think has changed the most since Hogwarts?"

Her eyebrows slowly inched up her forehead, taking a sip of her coffee. "Out of everyone?"

"Yes. Everyone." Then he thought about it. "No, I lied. Between you, me, Weasley, and Potter. Everyone else is completely unimportant."

She laughed, before she bit her lip, thinking. "Well, let's think, shall we? You've got no home, no job, no money, no Crabbe and Goyle following your every order – need I go on? You're the winner, no contest. Congratulations."

"Is that a good thing?"

She shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "How do _you_ look at it? As a bad thing or a good thing?"

She blinked, looking at him. It was obvious she was certainly pondering the question, and strange how their eyes never left each other's. But he wished he could see into her brain sometimes, just to see how she saw things. Not because she was a _woman_, but because she was… _her_. Her mind was like a Thinking Dome, 24-7. It was fascinating. Then again, most of the time he was glad he didn't have such a power. He shuddered to think what went on in there. She probably had a little corner reserved for Potter, like a shrine. And that would disturb him, even though now he was sure little teenage girls everywhere had posters of him taped up in their bedroom walls.

"Considering you aren't going around terrorizing innocent people in hallways and are instead drowning your miserable existence in liquor… it's close, but for the world's sake? A good thing." She seemed a little hesitant to disclose this information, as if she was silently agreeing that yes, perhaps he _was_ a "good guy" now (the phrase was used cautiously), but she managed a tiny smile after she said what she said. Which – he would never tell a soul – but made him feel a little warm inside. Was this how it felt to do _nice things for people_? Merlin, was it permanent?

He shook it off.

She took another sip from the cup. "But don't be mistaken – I still hate your guts."

Draco leaned back on the grass, feeling it tickle his wrists and arms. Spots of sunshine filtered through the shade of the tree above them, and one of the spots shone right on the peak of her left breast.

He smirked, before taking a good swig of his own drink. "Don't worry your frizzy little head, Granger. I'd hate to think of a world where you actually didn't."

"Unfathomable," she agreed. "Wanker."

"Perfectly unreal," he said. "Bitch."

They sat there and enjoyed their picnic until they were finished, and he packed everything up and went back to the flat, feeling slight contentment at the fact that he had somehow restored order to the world.


	2. Part 2

**A/N: **Ta-da! First off, let me express how _sorry_ I am that it took me four years (when, in reality, it took me about 2-3 days to write this – shameful!) to finally get this to you guys. It's no excuse, but it seriously took that long to get me inspired to finish this off. And I know it was a long wait, but I'm pretty confident about where this is going (and how it's going to end) that I can almost say it was worth it? Maybe? It's stunning how long I am willing to wait to finish a fic in the way that it deserves.

I know I said that this would be a 2-parter, but it's been 4 years, so disregard that. I'm pretty sure this is going to be a 3-parter. And no, it won't be another 4 year wait for the next installment. I'm writing it as we speak!

* * *

**Part 2**

**Day 48**

"I can't believe this is what you really do for fun," Draco grumbled to himself, swatting away large insects from his glistening face, and breathing heavily from the incline. He looked up in front of him. Potter was at the head, as usual, and Granger followed closely behind. As usual.

"Just shut up and enjoy nature, Malfoy," Potter said to him.

"I enjoy nature plenty in the confines of my room, staring out of a window, or watching two lizards have sex on the telly, thank you," he called out to him, swearing at the way the straps were cutting into his shoulders. He was convinced Granger had loaded gold bricks in his pack just for fun.

He was engaging in the very Muggle activity of wandering around a mountainside and pretending that it was sensually stimulating to be around the crotch bushes of nature. Potter and Granger called it hiking. He called it I'd Rather Be in My Room Pathetically Masturbating. He honestly hadn't known what he'd said yes to when Granger popped into his room this morning and asked him if he wanted to go for a hike. In fact, he had been more focused on what she'd been wearing – some terrifying brown boots, khaki shorts and a nice yellow tank top that showed a little bit of cleavage, shocking for such a prude like her – than what "hiking" actually was. And then she'd said, "Don't worry, Harry has a spare pair of hiking boots."

When she'd presented to him the ugliest pair of boots he'd ever seen, he knew he was in trouble. They were so hideous and beneath him that he swore his soul careened in his body at the mere sight of them. He was convinced that a demon of the most evil nature had inhabited him as he forced on those boots and stalked along after them.

They took a break on some rocks. He sat down, breathing hard and disgruntled with the amount of work he'd already done for today. Didn't they know he was just a pureblood, aristocratic prat that sat at home all day and drank tea? Didn't they know that just from looking at how pale he was? He wasn't born this way, you know. His lack of color was lovingly maintained by his wonderfully unadventurous lifestyle.

"Have a drink, Malfoy. You look like you're going to pass out." Granger said this with a little smirk on her lips, and he snatched the bottle from her, taking generous gulps.

"It's a Saturday morning, and you haul me out to the side of a mountain and force me to climb it with the weight of a chubby teenage girl on my back," he complained to them. "Even the Dark Lord wasn't this evil."

"Stop being so dramatic. You're fine," Potter said, waving him off, before venturing off on his own. Both he and Granger watched after him. He wondered when Potter's calves had become so sculpted and defined. He looked at his own calves, pasty white and only slightly so, and resentfully felt a little insecure.

Then he looked at Granger, sitting peacefully on a rock, her hair pulled up messily on top of her head. She was sweating, all right, but it was more like a gleam – he couldn't help but stare at where the sweat shone on her collarbone and across her chest when the sun hit it at precisely the right way through the trees. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were alive from activity.

"Is this what you do with Potter?" he asked her, feigning casualty. "Wander along the mountainside, eating nuts like overgrown squirrels and enjoying nature?"

"Yes," she said to him, matter-of-factly. "And we happen to enjoy hiking, although it's been considerably less enjoyable with you harping about a rock in your shoe or a mosquito hovering around your head every two minutes."

Draco stared at her thoughtfully. "I find it odd that, if you two like it so much, why you had to ask me. I'll bet my nonexistent Galleons that you, of all people, Granger, knew I would hate it."

She hesitated before she answered, and he knew right away. Honestly, he felt a little stung. Then he caught himself. Why should he be stung that Granger had only asked him because Potter suggested it? After all, wasn't that the sole reason he was living at her flat? Because she was madly in love with Potter and thus was helplessly under his control? God, it was pathetic. Granted, him being homeless and poor was pathetic, but she was pathetic on another level entirely.

"Harry thought it would be good for you to get out of the flat," she told him, replacing the cap on her water bottle. "And enjoy nature."

"I really don't see this nature that's so enjoyable that you keep talking about," he said, a little sharper than he'd intended it.

She frowned at him. "You know, you would be less vile if you learned how to act like a decent person," she said to him, standing up. "Then again, that would be like teaching a fish how to fly, wouldn't it?"

It was hard to believe that it was only yesterday that he had brought Granger a picnic lunch and they had sat outside of her office, eating their sandwiches with perfect civility. Now she was back to calling him the vilest person on the planet. He wanted to point this out to her, and had been fully intending to, but she had already huffingly turned on her heel and walked away. Scowling to himself, he picked up the pack and followed after them.

When they found Potter, it came as no surprise to Draco that he was with some long-legged brunette in cargo shorts, making her laugh with a joke that was probably only half as funny as she made it out to be. He knew Potter. Potter wasn't that funny.

He stopped beside Granger, who was watching them with a barely-hidden look of disgruntlement on her face. "Bloody hell. They're like moths to a flame, aren't they?" he remarked. He was half in awe at Potter's prowess at finding attractive women anywhere – including here, in the crotch bushes of nature – and only slightly envious. He wondered what it was about Potter that women found so beguiling, aside from the Hero Complex and the obvious fact that he had saved the wizarding world from a cruel, power-driven creature, and his decently tanned calves.

"And only half as smart, I bet," he heard Granger mutter under her breath, before Potter finally looked up and waved to them.

"Hermione! Malfoy! I want you to meet Leslie Hornbeak. She's going to be joining our hike today, if you lot don't mind."

Draco froze. The name rung a bell – and when names usually ring a bell, it usually meant that he had slept with the name-holder at one point or another in the last twelve months – and his suspicion was only confirmed when she turned around to smile at both him and Granger. When her smile slightly faltered when their eyes met and her cheeks flushed, he was sure. He had slept with this Leslie Hornbeak. Though he couldn't quite recall if she had been any good, which was perhaps the most vital thing you could remember about a girl like Leslie Hornbeak.

Granger greeted her with distant civility and he gave her a silent nod with the head. She and Potter ended up leading the group on another trail and Draco, for once, stayed quiet in observation. He suddenly felt as if he was a casual observer in the safari watching the lions. Not just between Potter and Leslie Hornbeak, but to the suddenly sullen girl trekking beside him. He caught Granger rolling her eyes every time she threw her head back and laughed at a joke that wasn't even remotely funny and he almost smiled to himself. There he was, Draco Malfoy, in the middle of it all. And he couldn't say that he wasn't enjoying himself.

"Hermione, right?" Leslie Hornbeak said to Granger as they took another one of their hiking breaks. Draco was on a log, squeezing the last bits of water from a bottle, reminding himself to lather on more sunscreen. "I used to have a picture of you three – the Golden Trio, as they put it – on my dresser mirror. I almost didn't recognize you without the hair and – well, the teeth." And then, to be cruel, flashed her own perfectly straight pearly whites.

"You look soooo much better now!" she exclaimed.

Draco watched as Granger only nodded, no doubt in awe of her stupidity, and told Harry that she would be leading the hike from now on, thank you very much, before heading off. Leslie Hornbeak shrugged at Harry before he helped her up, and Draco watched all of this with an unsettling feeling of. . . could it really be? Dissatisfaction at the situation at hand? And he was really starting to hate this Leslie Hornbeak and her incredibly long legs. She was attractive, it was true, but Merlin he doubted there was anything made of matter in her skull.

Which concerned him, greatly. Because since when had real common sense mattered to him when it came to a pretty girl? He lamented to himself. He had been sober far too long.

"And you – I've read in the papers about you," Leslie said to Draco, as they hiked along. "Recently. Something about you being homeless."

It was only a few short moments afterwards that Leslie Hornbeak found herself clumsily falling to the ground, scraping her knees and hands on the tiny little rocks in their path. Potter pissed all over himself to help her up while Draco and Granger just stood there. Innocent bystanders. Nothing else.

"Oh no," Draco said, flatly. "She's fallen. What a shame."

"Sorry," Leslie Hornbeak said, clearly embarrassed. "I must have tripped over a rock. I should watch where I'm going!" she said, giggling.

As they turned around to head on, he caught the look Granger shot him from the corner of his eye. She was smiling.

"Thanks," she whispered to him.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Granger," he said. "Accidents happen."

She ducked her head down to stifle a laugh.

ooo

They finished their hike without another incident, during which Potter ditched them to "grab a bite" with Leslie (without extending an invitation to either Draco or Granger, which he was quite upset about, as he, too, was bloody famished after being dragged on a stupid nature hike and being eaten alive by bugs large enough to be horrific) and Granger and Draco wordlessly retired to the flat, exhausted. Draco hardly had enough energy to pry off those sodding hiking boots – proof of everything that was wrong with the world, in his opinion – except that he was hellbent on making a statement with them, which he did by tossing them out of his room and into the hallway with great enthusiasm.

"Fuck hiking," he groaned to himself as he crawled into bed. "Fuck nature."

It was dark out when he finally woke. He glanced at the clock and realized he had been asleep for approximately five hours. His skin felt warm all over and he sighed, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He spent a good minute pitying himself before he got up and headed out of his room, making his way to the kitchen. On the counter he found his dinner – a plate of pasta Granger had saved for him, still steaming from a heat enchantment. He grabbed a fork from the drawer, took the plate, and followed the noise.

He found Granger on the sofa, sniffling to herself. She was watching something on the telly. He snuck up on her quietly.

He was chewing on a mouthful of pasta. "Are you really crying over a Muggle movie?" he finally said.

She wiped her tears away quickly with the back of her hand. "No. Shut up. Go away."

He sat down next to her and, with great amusement, realized what she was holding between her hands. Not to mention the damage she'd apparently done to it, all by herself – it was already half empty. "A carton of ice cream. Crying over a sad, unrealistic depiction of exaggerated romantic love. Granger," he said, shocked, "I believe you've just become a female cliché."

She glared at him with her red-brimmed eyes. "You need to be invited to sit on this couch. And I didn't hear an invitation."

"I thought I was doing you a favor. You looked so sad and pathetic sitting by yourself," he said, shoveling more pasta into his mouth.

She scowled. "Well, you're not."

"That's okay. I wasn't very good at doing people favors anyway. That would entail actually giving a shit about others, which clearly isn't in my genetic make-up. The first Malfoys traded that trait in for ridiculously beautiful hair, and I can't say we've missed it since."

She just shook her head at him. "You're a real piece of work, Malfoy."

He shifted around on her lumpy, uncomfortable sofa, trying to find a comfortable position yet fully knowing that he wouldn't. Not ever. "What Muggle film are we watching?"

"The movie that _I_ am watching is When Harry Met Sally. The movie that _you_ are watching is the movie of your face going back to your room, shutting the door, and making as little noise as possible."

"Ouch," he said, wincing. "Just kidding. I don't have feelings. But if I did, that smart little comment might have hurt them. Maybe."

She didn't say anything. She was now doing what she did best: ignoring him. She usually succeeded until he opened his mouth again.

"Answer me this, Granger: if you and every living Muggle female knows exactly how every one of these movies end, why do you still feel the need to sit through every single one of them? Repeatedly?"

"Because, Malfoy," she sighed. "For the same reason people reread their favorite books."

"Moving pictures containing women perpetuating codependent feminine self-worth on their possession of a boyfriend hardly compares to great literature," he said dryly.

For a minute, she almost looked impressed – that is, before she remembered just how annoying he was. He prided himself in the fact that she was irritated by the fact that he had a point.

"It's mindless. It's a distraction. A nice, occasional escape from reality. Happy now?" She grabbed the remote – a rectangular piece of plastic full of senseless buttons – and turned up the volume, probably in hopes of drowning him out. On the screen he saw a man and a woman, both not very attractive, and speaking very quickly.

"And what exactly would you, Hermione Granger, have to escape your beige-infested reality for?" Aside from all the beige, he wanted to add, but couldn't, due to a generous bite of delicious pasta.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Perhaps from the fact that I have a rather annoying, very blond flatmate who will go to no end to ruin both my sanity and my day. Who, by the way, doesn't even pay rent and drinks all my tea and throws hiking shoes around with no utter regard for anyone around him."

Draco loudly sucked the inside of his cheek. "Eh. I don't think that's what it is."

"That," she said to him pointedly, "is exactly what it is."

He stopped chewing and looked at her. Really looked at her.

"Stop it," she said, without even glancing at him.

"Stop what?"

"Stop staring at me with those stupid little eyes of yours. I can feel them boring into my skull. Watch the movie or leave. Frankly, I'd rather have the latter but we all know you couldn't give less a shit even if you died and went to Valhalla."

Honestly. Granger was being testier than usual today, although was that much of a surprise after Potter's little stunt at the hiking trail? Ugh. Hiking. Fuck hiking. Fuck nature.

"Admit it, Granger. You don't hate me."

"You're quite mistaken. I hate you. And I'm not just being modest."

"Fine," he said. "Just checking."

They lapsed into silence. Draco finished his plate of pasta, set it on the coffee table, and attempted watching this sappy Muggle film about God-Knows-What. From the disturbing lack of explosions and curse words, he knew instantly that this would not be a Muggle film he would get very keen on. Then again, Granger was not exactly an explosions-and-curse words kind of girl. She was a pine-over-your-best-friend-while-he-shags-every-available-woman-in-the-wizarding-world-and-decorate-your-flat-with-every-horrific-beige-item-in-the-universe kind of girl.

"It's not hard," she muttered.

"Sorry?"

"It's not hard to hate you," she said, speaking up, still not looking at him. "You make it real easy, Malfoy. You make it so easy even the idea of liking you seems unfathomable. My brain can hardly calculate it, it's so ludicrous."

"I apologize if my main goal in life isn't to be liked," he drawled. In fact, he detested people who went around making sure they were liked. He was pretty certain they had no soul.

"Would that be so bad, though?" she asked. "To have a few people like you. Hell, even just one."

"Potter likes me."

"Harry's generous," she said, rolling her eyes. "He's a saint for liking you. I'll never understand why he does the things that he does for you."

"It's because he believes every human being is inherently good." It started with the colossal mistake of Draco saving his life, really. He hadn't even meant to. It sort of just happened, like all catastrophic events. A complete and total fluke that Potter would never let him live down.

"He obviously doesn't know you very well."

"That's what I've been telling him. Since day one." He paused for a moment, absentmindedly staring at the television. "Look at it this way, Granger: when people start liking you, they start having expectations about you. The way you act, what you say, what you do. The minute you do something that doesn't abide by this phony idea of you they've created, you disappoint them. Then people get angry and things get complicated."

"I've never heard somebody rationalize being generally unliked by every single person he's met," she said, in awe.

"What can I say, Granger?" he smirked. "It's a talent. And I'm one of a kind."

She rolled her eyes at him, but didn't say anything else. He figured this was the part they'd stop talking and he'd pretend to be interested in this stupid Muggle film without explosions or people's limbs flying at the camera. He started thinking about how it was hardly worth the effort without someone even getting so much as a bloody nose or a skinned knee.

"But don't you ever get sad, thinking about the future?" she asked. "Dying alone and everything."

He thought about it for a second. "I was born alone, so I'll die alone. There's a certain poetic parallel to it. Honestly, Granger. You spend too much of your life thinking about what other people think, it'll ruin you. And," he said, "sadness is a crutch for the weak-willed. I don't get sad. I get angry and I sulk and then I plan my revenge. That's not sad."

She looked at him, then. He could almost see the pity she felt for him in those sad brown eyes of hers. How infuriating. "I almost buy it, you know. This act of yours. Lone ranger, riding off into the sunset, alone."

He chortled. He actually chortled. "Granger, it's hardly an act."

"Yeah. Sure," she said, monotonously. "Just you wait and see, Malfoy. One day you'll wake up and see with startling clarity how empty your life is. Maybe you'll meet someone, and that's what'll trigger it. You'll realize how alone you are, and how sad you are – the kind of sadness that goes deep in your bones, that doesn't disappear when you finish a bottle of vodka all by yourself. Then you'll want to change that. And you won't look back. You won't even miss how things used to be."

He looked at her, then, one brow raised in surprise. He wanted to ask her if this was something she'd known from experience. But from the distant look in her eyes, the frown pressed up against her lips, he knew it would have been bad form. And for some unexplainable reason he didn't feel like pressing that button tonight. He did, however, make a mental note of this moment in case he ever needed it to keep her in line in the future.

_I may choose to be alone_, Granger, he thought to himself. _But what about you?_

"There no explosions in this one, by the way. There's no maiming, no excessive use of swear words, and no blood spurts. No violence whatsoever."

"What?" he sighed. "But those are all the main ingredients for the only Muggle films that deserve proper watching." But he didn't move to get up, although he did consider it. Something was making him stay. He knew better than to wonder what it was.

"The ice cream, Granger. Are you going to hoard it all for yourself or are you going to be decent and share?"

She sighed unhappily but passed it to him. He Accio'd a spoon and – though he'd never admit it – they shared the last half of the ice cream in that carton that night.

ooo

**Day 49**

"I heard," Harry James Potter was saying from his doorway, as Draco was slowly being dragged out of his peaceful slumber, "that you and our little Hermione shared a carton of ice cream last night."

"Bloody hell," Draco groaned. For a minute he was confused. "Wait. Were you there?"

"I was not there. I was out on a date with Leslie, remember?" he said, smirking. "You were talking about it in your sleep. It was quite adorable, Draco."

"Please," he said. "Don't call me adorable. It's too early for any of that. I prefer 'panty-wettingly handsome' and 'Grecian God divine.'"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Get up, Draco. Shower, get dressed, and have some breakfast. You and I have a fieldtrip today."

Draco perked up, his grogginess washed away by a tide of excitement and anticipation. "Bar?"

"No, better," Harry grinned. "The Ministry."

Draco cursed under his breath but got out of bed. He had to face the bastards sometime, and boy, was he prepared to give them a piece of his mind. In the shower, he practiced the intense verbal whipping he planned to give to them that he'd rehearsed countless times before. He also made sure to shave so that they would have no mistake when it came to him sneering in their face and promising to end their lineage.

"No, really. What happened last night?" Potter asked, once he'd gotten all dressed and headed out to the kitchen for breakfast. Granger, as usual, was at work. She'd left a half-pot of steaming coffee for him, which he usually drank all in one sitting. Sometimes he didn't even use a mug, which he intended to reveal in the future – preferably at a crucial moment in which he really wanted to piss her off.

"If you must know, we invited a few friends over and had a night-long orgy. Don't worry, you'll be invited to the next one."

Harry almost looked green in the face. "Please don't."

"Relax, Potter. We watched a movie and ate ice cream. I practically grew a vagina last night, in case you were wondering. We almost braided each other's hair."

Harry stared at him. "This movie. Were there explosions in it?"

"No. Zero. And there were too many women with actual clothes on."

"Then I apologize for such a traumatic experience," he said. Then he stopped, as if thinking of something. He narrowed his eyes at him. Draco, taken aback, glanced behind him, confused. "You didn't sleep with her, did you?"

"Bloody hell," Draco said.

"Did you try anything? Answer me, Draco."

"Of course not!" he exclaimed. "Although why you'd think I'd tell you even if I did is beyond me. You really don't get how this man friendship works, do you, Potter?" Harry's eyes only narrowed even more. "Look, I didn't. Not that I would. I mean, Granger? Come the fuck on. Unless you think I would, which is the only reason you would be asking. Oh my god, would I?"

He grabbed the Daily Prophet off the table. "I officially," Harry said, "regret ever asking this question."

"I don't know, Potter," Draco was still saying, once they'd Apparated to the entrance of the Ministry. "You might have just opened me up to an entirely new realm of possibilities."

"Please," Harry said. "If you value anything I'm doing for you, keep them to yourself."

They walked into the ominous, bustling building. Draco Malfoy hated the Ministry of Magic. It was infested with heartless bureaucrats – which, usually, would be just fine, but they all hated him. This fact was confirmed to him by the numerous sneers and gruff "Malfoy"s the employees greeted him with. And he'd thought Granger's flat had been a hostile environment. The Ministry topped even Bed, Bath and Beyond's seventh circle of neutral-colored hell.

They were referred to a cramped hallway filled with many doors that each opened to a tiny, cramped office. Potter stopped at a door labeled _Trevor Wolfhurtz, Ministry-Seized Wizardry Possessions_ and knocked before being summoned in by a man engulfed by paperwork. Everywhere around him there were papers flying by, diving into filing cabinets, or whizzing out of a tiny slit on an adjacent wall that said, _Seize and Evict Letters_. Draco wished he could have a moment alone with that hole. He would hex that tiny hole into next week.

"Afternoon, Trevor," Potter said, ever the believer in empty social niceties.

Trevor was a stodgy man sweating under a cheap suit. He looked up at him and Potter with a plastic smile. "Ah, Potter. Malfoy. Take a seat."

They both took a seat, taking great care to dodge the flying envelopes. Draco swatted a few out of the way.

"We're here about the Malfoy Estate," Potter said.

"_My_ estate," Draco corrected. "As I am its sole possessor and heir. Because I am Draco Malfoy. Did I mention that I am its sole possessor and heir?"

"Thank you for enlightening me with facts I did not currently have," Trevor said dryly, and Draco scowled at him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Malfoy, even with Potter's connections here at the Ministry, it'll still take a few weeks to reassess your situation with the WIRS. Then we'll be able to release your estate back to you after you've paid off your debt."

"Weeks?" Draco echoed in horror.

"Or months," Trevor said, having not looked up from his papers once since they'd come in. "This department is completely backlogged. As you know, this has only since been rebuilt after the Death Eaters destroyed this wing. We used to think it was a mistake that came completely out of the left field, but upon further investigation we've discovered that a fair amount of the Dark Lord's army never paid their taxes. And by a fair amount, we mean all. Including your father, Lucius."

The ever-illustrious Lucius Malfoy, his half-namesake. Late father to one living son, cowering simp to the Dark Lord, indiscreet Death Eater, and now, a non-tax payer. Could there be a finer legacy for a father to leave behind? He had to think hard about that one.

"Can you give us a more approximate timeline of when you'll have an answer?" Potter asked, infuriatingly measured and calm about it all. Draco, in the meantime, was fantasizing about bashing Trevor's head into his desk and giving him a few papercuts in his eyelids.

"Even with the acceleration of his documents, it'll still take weeks for our approximators to sweep through his manor and calculate the monetary worth of all his family's possessions."

Draco sighed, leaning against the back of his chair. "It's true. The Manor is indeed ripe with mountains of meaningless shit. It's amazing, really, how difficult my father has succeeded in making my life even long after he's dead. I'm almost convinced he deserves a medal."

Trevor Wolfhurtz was so coldhearted he didn't even have the facial capacity to pretend to look sorry for him. Draco was almost impressed. He deducted that in his twilight years, Trevor must have been in Slytherin. "We'll be sure to send you an owl when we have a more definite answer," Trevor said.

"Sure," Draco said, sullenly. "Just make sure you send it to the place home décor goes to die."

Potter quickly got to his feet. "We'll be going now," said Harry.

ooo

Hermione Granger did not look happy to see them on her doorstep, although Draco had called this fact long before they'd ever ended up here, when they entered the bar. It was absurd he'd even considered her feelings while he stood the chance of getting a real alcoholic drink, but he'd said it before he'd even decided to: "Granger's not going to like this." And then, without hesitation, he'd said, "Let's do it."

And now she was looking at the both of them like two dirty dogs she'd found in an alley.

"Sorry, Hermione," Harry said, once she opened the door for them. "It's been a long day."

Draco had lost any and all control of his motor capabilities. Wait, that wasn't true. There. His foot just twitched.

"You took a recovering alcoholic to a bar," she deadpanned, watching as Potter dragged Draco to the couch. Ah, this couch. It wasn't so bad, when he was drunk. It was actually almost comfortable. In fact, right now, he could marry this couch. Yes, he could.

"Should I just hand you the Common Sense Award or wait for them to owl it to you so you can act shocked?"

"It wasn't like that, originally," Harry said. "I took him out to ice cream first. You should have seen him, Hermione. He was like a miserable seal pup. You would have done the same."

"I seriously doubt that."

Harry sighed. "Listen. He's already all puked out. He's asleep. Just let him sleep it off on the couch. Yell at me in the morning if you're still angry. It was my idea."

She sounded like she couldn't quite believe it. "You're drunk too, aren't you?"

"Just a little bit," Harry answered. "Have a good night! Take care of him. I'll see you in the morning. Love you. Okay. Whoa, that was a stair. Aaaand there's another one. Blimey, have there always been this many stairs?"

Draco heard the slam of the door and Granger's feet shuffle against the carpet. She was sighing obnoxiously loud and muttering things under her breath, but he couldn't quite understand them because he was seriously drunk and all he wanted to do was sleep. So he slept.

ooo

He woke up a few hours later – still drunk, no less – but he turned his head to see Granger sitting down in front of her bookshelf. Half of the gigantic thing has been emptied out and she has towering piles of books around her like she was Godzilla and she's built her own mini-city to destroy. Or possibly organize in a more convenient manner.

"You're insane," he said. His groggy voice was muffled by a couch cushion, but she heard him anyway.

"I organize when I can't sleep," she said.

"Somehow I'm not even remotely surprised by that."

"Then I guess we're in the business of not surprising each other," she said, her voice a little sharp. He could hear a lecture coming, and that alone made his head hurt. Why had he ever opened his mouth? "For instance, am I surprised that Harry, after initially ditching you at my place like it's some sort of hostel, has taken you out to get drunk only to drop you back off on my couch?"

"Are you really asking me or is this a rhinoceros question?" Draco blinked. "Wait. Rhinoceros? I meant rhetorical."

She shook her head, ignoring him. Her voice was so soft that he had to strain his ears to hear her, which he had to point out that they did on their own. He was far too drunk to do anything like that on purpose. "Sometimes I don't even know what I'm doing."

"Nonsense. You're Hermione sodding Granger. You always know what you're doing. That's who you are. That's what you do. You just know. Everything. You're like – like a _Knowing Machine_."

To him, everything that came out of his mouth made perfect sense. Once, at a bar, he swore he started speaking Tagalog. It was only the morning after that they told him that what he had actually been doing was singing the American National Anthem. Very badly.

"That's what everybody thinks of me, isn't it?"

He tried to shrug, but this proved to be a struggle when he was laying face-down on the sofa, so he gave up very quickly. "I can't say. I'm not everybody. Thank God, you know? I'd hate to be only moderately good-looking." He practically broke out in hives just thinking of it. To be _average_! Thank heavens that was a bullet he dodged just by being born.

She appeared to be amused with him. "Sometimes I really do wonder what goes on in that head of yours. To be the star of the ongoing Draco Malfoy show, where vanity gets you good ratings and good deeds mean absolutely nothing."

"Granger," he said, closing his eyes. The room was spinning. How was it doing that? And whoa, his body. Did he even have a body anymore? Why couldn't he feel it? "Adonde esta la biblioteca?"

"Apparently," Granger said, surprised, "when you're drunk, you know Spanish."

"Ou-est la librarie? Je dois étudier!" He began to snore.

"All right. Bonne nuit, Malfoy," Granger said, stifling a laugh. "You strange, strange man."

ooo

**Day 54**

Granger punished Draco for approximately three days for having violated her rules, and Potter for approximately five for "being an irresponsible man-child" (her exact words, which tickled Draco so much he found a piece of paper, wrote it down, and taped it next to his door). She refused to speak to any of them. Draco, frankly, would have thought he'd just died and gone to heaven if not for the fact that he was still trapped in her puke-colored flat.

"Why do you even care if she's not speaking to you?" Draco asked, as Potter finally concluded whining over Granger's continued icy, nonverbal reception to him. Draco envied him. Granger had ended her Ice Queen period with him, but that did not mean the things she had to say were any bits of sunshine. "Think about it. Right now, you are the luckiest man alive. Aside from the men who have the good fortune never to meet Granger, anyway."

"You don't get it. You don't have any friends," Potter said sourly.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

He sighed. "Hermione giving the silent treatment is even worse than the scolding and the lecturing." He began to mutter under his breath. "She never used to do this, until Ginny taught her how."

"I told you the Weasleys were the red-headed horsemen of the Apocalypse," Draco pointed out, drinking his coffee out of the pot. "I swear on Merlin's beard, I once saw the Weaselette talking to someone, and in mid-conversation, sucked his soul right out. And then she picked her teeth with her fingers."

Harry stared at him in awe. "How do you even come up with such terrible thoughts about people?" Then he shook his head, getting up from the kitchen table. "That is exactly why you aren't allowed within thirty meters of my flat. Hermione was right about you. Your heart is a rotten piece of – something. Something awful. Totally unspeakable."

Draco stopped sipping from the coffee pot. "What? Now you're going to stop speaking to me, too?"

"Yes," Potter said. "That is exactly what I am going to do. For as long as Hermione doesn't speak to me, I'm not going to speak to you. Because you are a horrible human being and I can't think of any reason why you exist aside from punishing decent people."

He was actually a little hurt. That sounded like something Granger would say. Merlin's crack pipe, what if everybody was going to turn into Granger? "Special edition, actually."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

Draco watched Potter leave Granger's flat, slamming the door behind him. He couldn't believe it. Granger was right. Potter _was_ an irresponsible man-child.

ooo

**Day 70**

Draco had been standing there for about four minutes, and for exactly four of those minutes, Granger had not looked up once from her cup of tea. She had her chin on her right palm, looking awfully somber and faraway. He took this as a moment to study her in her natural state, which was, sadly: alone. He wondered what she was thinking, and then realizing that he actually wanted to know, he took that back. He loudly cleared his throat.

"No wonder you were so terrible at Divination," he said, when her head snapped up. "I've been standing here for four minutes watching you try to read your tea leaves."

She scowled at him. "I was not reading my tea leaves. And I was only terrible at it because Divination is rubbish, and being good at it would mean I actually put stock in its legitimacy. And stop sneaking up on me like that."

"I can't help it if I'm light-footed."

While she rolled her eyes at him and muttered numerous complaints under her breath, he poured himself a little bit of her tea to bring back to his room, which he eventually did. As he was, however, settling back into his bed to read – something he'd picked off of her bookshelf, so it probably wasn't going to be very good – he looked up to find Granger leaning against his doorway, biting her bottom lip.

"What are you doing tonight?"

He stared at her. "Granger. Is this a trick question?"

"Shut up, Malfoy. I mean, are you going out with Harry? Or are you just going to go through all of my books and write inappropriate comments in the margins?"

He closed the book, waiting for her proposition. Finally, she sighed. Whatever she was about to ask, it looked like she was about to swallow a frog, which he was enjoying immensely. This had to be good. "You have two hours to get showered, get dressed, and look presentable."

"Look _presentable_?" he said. Dear God! "We both know I look better on my worst days than any of you look on your best days, so I'm just going to assume you said that to hurt my feelings, which might have worked – had I any actual feelings."

"Two hours, Malfoy," she repeated, before she turned and closed the door behind her.

o

"I am officially," Draco was muttering, "a prisoner."

"Like you had anything better to do," she snapped at him. "Let's go over the ground rules, shall we? There will be no insulting anyone, no making smart remarks, no comments revolving anything Muggle, no eye-rolls, no sneers, no scowls, no being unpleasant – basically," she sighed, studying him with her eyes, which frankly made him squirm a little, "try to resist any impulse of being yourself."

"But I'm Draco bloody Malfoy," he said back.

"Also, there will be no drinking," she said, ignoring him. "For you."

"Wait 'til Potter hears about this," he muttered under his breath, as they walked side by side on the street. It was dark and the quaint little street lamps were all lit up, barely illuminating the humble little Muggle homes across from them. Through the windows he could see people – Muggles – carrying on, watching the telly, cursing their spouses, hating their middle-class lives. He loathed every moment of it. He could almost feel the mediocrity sinking into his pores.

"Yeah, when that happens, you can thank him," she said in what he guessed to be a bitter tone. "He's the one who canceled."

He looked at her. She walked underneath a lamp post and he got a clear look at her – all made-up, with a determined look on her face. He'd never admit so out loud, but Granger looked. . . quite nice. Still, those were insignificant details in the face of the one very important message he'd gotten from her little comment: that he was just a stand-in for Potter. Potter had canceled on this stupid Muggle party with Granger – most certainly to bang someone as spectacularly stupid as Leslie Hornbeak – and now he was the one who had to suffer the backdraft, as usual. He felt a small chip on his ego, which annoyed him, because when had any of that mattered? Once he got back his Manor when the Ministry finally decided to stop flogging him, he would be free from all of the murky, sadistic politics of this so-called "friendship of the decade." He would never have to think about this again.

"You're punishing me because Potter is an incompetent planner? Or because he thinks it's more important to shag every woman than to go to your parents' anniversary party?"

Granger stopped in her step, frozen. Then she slowly turned around, her eyes hard and dark.

"Don't you _ever_," she seethed, "say that again."

He laughed, the noise coming from his throat empty and harsh. "Why not? It's true, isn't it? He's the hero of the fucking world and he can't keep one lousy date with you. Frankly, I don't even know why you bother, Granger. I thought you were smarter than this. At least that you had a little bit more self-respect."

In the back of his mind, Draco had no idea where all of this was coming from. He hadn't even been aware that he cared about any of it. He told himself that he did it just to make her feel bad for using him as a stand-in, that she deserved it. He forced himself to keep looking at her when all she did was stand there, silent, with an unmistakable flash of both surprise and hurt in her eyes. Those eyes. Those stupid Granger eyes.

_Remember all of those times you called her a Mudblood? This is hardly any worse than that_. _For you, this is tame. These are playground insults._

He expected her to whip out her wand, just like the olden days, and threaten to hex his face into his arsehole. But she didn't. She just stood there, and after a few moments, she composed herself, and she said, "My parents' house is just a few houses down. We're supposed to walk in together because you're my guest, but I'll tell them you dropped your wallet on the street and that's why you're late."

And then she turned on her heel and walked on, leaving him behind. He stared after her, feeling an odd chill in his chest.

"What the fuck is a wallet?" he called out at her back.

He almost wished she'd hexed him instead.

oo

Granger's Muggle home was exactly how he expected her Muggle home to look like. Tacky, plain furniture with entirely too many flowers, not nearly enough leg room, not enough mirrors, not a square of velvet anywhere, no mahogany – he could go on for days about the ways in which the Granger family home violated the standard book of home décor. At least he got a break from all the beige – which, unfortunately, the longer he was here, the more he was starting to miss.

He noticed all of this with one generous visual sweep of the Granger abode, albeit being jostled by the many – apparently buzzed – almost-senior-citizens that had shown up to the party. There was music playing, it was immensely crowded, and he'd already had two older women grab his arse since he'd walked in through the door. He'd heard one mutter, "Looks like the party's just arrived, ladies" before winking at him in such a way that made him want to spend the entire night scraping out his eyes with forks.

"Hello young man," another woman slurred to him, wearing a skirt entirely too short for someone her age. "Who are you?"

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he answered, still looking for Granger in the crowd. "I'm here with Granger – Hermione. Have you seen her?"

She – and the flock of women that had somehow suspiciously formed behind her – looked surprised. "Hermione? Our little blossom? You're here with her?"

"Yes," he said, annoyed. "Do you know where she is?"

She waved down the hallway. "She's in the kitchen." Draco catapulted himself across the room. "Oh, but you will come back to us later, won't you?" he heard her call out. He shuddered.

It took a little maneuvering, but he finally got to the kitchen. Thankfully, it was a little less crowded there, and he finally found Granger, talking to a couple.

"Granger—" he said, before he stopped. He stared at her. "Did you change or something?"

"No," she said, before laughing nervously. "I just took off my coat. Why haven't you?"

_Because I was too busy being molested by every single tit-sagging female in this house_, he wanted to say. But it was as if she'd read his mind, because then she'd quickly said, "Never mind, we'll get you sorted out later. Draco, these are my parents. Tom and Jennifer Granger."

It took him a bit of effort to tear his eyes off of her dress, and a brief flashback to their Fourth Year Yule Ball made his head spin a little, but he finally did look up to the couple she was gesturing to. The man – a tall, tanned man with amazing teeth - shook his hand firmly, while the woman, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Granger – also with amazing teeth – pulled him in. He froze, switching his eyes to Granger. Was this – was this actually a _hug_?

"It's lovely to meet you," Mrs. Granger said as she pulled back, smiling with her perfect veneers. "I thought we'd met every one of Hermione's friends, but apparently not."

"Which house did you say you were in again?" Mr. Granger asked.

"He didn't," Granger suddenly said, grabbing his arm. "Not that it matters now, anyway. We're going to go take care of his coat. We'll see you in a bit."

"All right, cheers, darling!" her mum called out to them, as she dragged him out of the kitchen. "You two have fun now!"

Granger took him up the stairs, during which he had the pleasure of glimpsing a few family photos on the walls. He made a mental note of a few of a young Granger wearing various costumes and smiling with big buckteeth and terrible hair.

"Where are we going, exactly?" he asked. "Do you have a dungeon too?"

She opened the door to a bedroom with pale yellow walls. He let his eyes wander. There was a bookshelf in the corner, impeccably organized, a few pictures in some frames, not to mention some tasteless child art. On her made bed he spotted a little pink stuffed bunny holding. . . He narrowed his eyes at it. "Bloody hell, is that bunny holding a _tooth_?"

"My parents are dentists," she explained. Then she sighed. "You can leave your coat in here. Nobody will touch it."

He silently shrugged off his coat, gently tossing it on her bed.

"So this is your room," he said, still scanning his surroundings. "In your Muggle house."

"I'm surprised you haven't lapsed into an allergic shock," she said dryly. "I was sure after my mum hugged you that you'd drop to the floor and start foaming at the mouth. That's why I requested that she hug you. I told her you were a big fan, and that you didn't nearly get hugged enough as a child."

When he turned to her, she was sitting on her desk chair, smirking at him. "Don't look so brokenhearted, Granger. It makes you look constipated."

She shrugged, grabbing something off her desk. It was a glass dome filled with water, with figurines inside. When she shook it, tiny bits of glitter started floating around. "I'm not stupid, Malfoy. I know it takes more than that to incapacitate pure evil."

For a moment he tried to imagine what it must have been like. To grow up in this room, with Granger's Muggle parents, in this badly-decorated Muggle home in a very unexciting Muggle neighborhood – to _be_ Granger. He understood why finding out she had magical capabilities could mean so much to her. But did he really? He saw all of the pictures of her and her family scattered around the house. Underneath the posed smiles and bad fashion, he could clearly sense something there. In this house, beneath the tackiness and faded throw pillows. Was it love?

"We'd better head down to the party," she finally said, getting to her feet. He watched her hands smooth down the creases in her navy dress. "Don't want them thinking we're doing anything suspicious up here."

He could tell she hadn't meant to say it when he caught sight of her face – her cheeks all inflamed, clearly wincing from her conversational faux-pas.

"Don't make me gag, Granger," he said. He hoped she didn't notice he put in only half the enthusiasm he usually injected in his insults for her.

They joined the tipsy, boisterous party. Draco, only realizing how famished he was, piled his plate with many strange Muggle confections. However, when he tried to sneak a bit of alcohol in his drink, Granger was suddenly beside him, snatching his cup away and replacing it with something he could only describe as disappointingly virgin. "You get the little kids' punch, Malfoy. Don't think I won't be watching you."

And then he watched, scowling, as she took a generous sip from his drink. She immediately began to cough.

"Bloody hell, this is pure alcohol," she said, wiping her mouth with her wrist. He relished the little tears that began to pool up in the corner of her eyes.

"Maybe _you_ should get the little kids' punch, Granger," he said to her, scowling at his plastic cup of punch. "Sodding lightweight."

She narrowed her eyes at him, pointing her finger in his face. "You have a single sip of liquor tonight, and you're sleeping in the backyard. Do you hear me?"

"Shut up, Granger. I already know the rules. You've practically scored them into the walls of my skull."

"Harry isn't here to be your scapegoat, Malfoy. I mean it."

"_Scapegoat_? He's the one who gets to shag tonight and I'm at this party, _sober_ no less, and _he's_ the one that gets to be called the scapegoat?" He took a sip of his punch. "Hero of the fucking world that Potter, all right."

She almost looked like she pitied him. "Just try and be pleasant, all right? These are my parents' friends and a few relatives. Look at how happy everyone is," she said, gesturing to the dancing drunks around them.

"Look at how drunk everyone is," he said. "You'd be surprised at how easier it is to be happy when you're drunk, Granger. Then the world is all good and right. That's what you've stolen from me. You and your sodding prohibition."

She smiled at him. Really smiled. He hated her for it. "I bet, if you really resisted the urge to be yourself, you'd actually find you could have a bit of fun without a drink in your hand."

And then, with that stupid smile of hers, she began to walk away in her stupid blue dress. "Granger! Where the hell do you think you're going!" he called. His voice was lost in the cacophony of conversation and the music. She heard him anyway.

"Going to say hi to a few family friends! Stay there and try to enjoy yourself!"

He watched her disappear in the crowd. He leaned against the wall, sighing. "Not bloody likely," he muttered to himself.

He must have spent twenty minutes there, alone, eating their little Muggle finger-foods – which were, admittedly, sort of delicious and not as gag-inducing as he'd thought – and dodging conversation with anyone that tried to make any sort of eye-contact, which was mostly middle-aged women somehow thinking they were twenty years younger than they actually were. When he looked around for Granger, he managed to pour a bit of vodka in his punch. _Rules shmules_, he thought to himself, feeling the glorious burn in his throat as he tossed it back. He finished off his cup before he refilled it with punch, finally peeling himself off the wall to look for her.

He found her in the kitchen talking enthusiastically to someone he'd never seen before. He felt a little rush of annoyance when he saw her, honestly, chatting it up with some bloke after she'd ditched him to be eaten alive by her grope-happy Muggle acquaintances.

"Granger," he said, tersely, interrupting their conversation.

The expression on her face – of surprise and realization, as if she'd truly forgotten she'd dragged him to this party in the first place – irritated him even more. "Malfoy. You're here. This is David. He's a neighbor – well, used to be, until he moved out of his parents' house a few years ago."

"Nice to meet you," Muggle David said. Draco often prided himself in his ability to read people, and he could clearly tell that underneath Muggle David's decent grooming skills and polite tones that he had no soul. Clearly he was just an empty vessel, like a seashell tossed on the shore. Pretty but useless. "Did you go to school with Hermione?"

Draco ignored him and turned to Granger. "Can I talk to you? Like now."

"Sure," she was saying, running one hand through her hair. He noticed how flushed she was, and how glassy her eyes had gotten. "I'll see you later, David, okay?"

Empty Vessel Muggle David nodded good-naturedly, before leaving them alone. Granger looked up at Draco. "What? What is it now?"

"You tell me, Granger. First, you drag me to this party and tell me to resist any impulse to be myself, and furthermore, that I _can't_ drink—"

"Both rules you've already broken," she pointed out.

"—and then you ditch me to talk to Seashell Boy!"

She looked confused. "Who the hell is Seashell Boy?"

Draco opened his mouth to continue on with his verbal whipping – that is, until he caught a whiff of her breath. He drew back, staring at her. Glassy eyes, flushed face. "Bloody hell," he said, stunned. "You're drunk."

"Rubbish," she said. "I've only had one drink. Your drink. The one you made."

"Which was," he said, slowly, "pure alcohol."

"Was it? Funny, tasted like water." She rolled her eyes. "I diluted it, you prat."

He watched her, carefully. Perhaps she wasn't drunk, but she was well on her way. "I think we should leave," he said.

"Thanks for the suggestion, but I'm the one that gets to decide when we leave, and the night is not nearly done. Now, if you excuse me, my parents are about to have their dance."

She brushed past him, and, cursing the fates, he followed after her. The music stopped as they traveled through the hallway and people stopped bustling about. In the living room, people had left room for Mr. and Mrs. Granger – a nice, moderately-sized circle. He watched them smiling at everyone underneath a banner that loudly exclaimed _Happy 25__th__ Anniversary Jennifer and Tom_!

Mrs. Granger quieted the crowd as she and Mr. Granger announced thanks for everyone that could make it. They pointed out their loving daughter, Granger, in front of him, who he was sure turned as red as a summer tomato. And then, with a melodic strum of a guitar, the music started back on.

Everybody watched, motionless, as Mr. and Mrs. Granger latched hands and began to dance with each other in the designated circle. He hated to admit it, but as bizarre as it was… it wasn't the worst thing about this party. He hadn't noticed himself moving up the crowd until he found himself side by side with Granger, who was raptly watching her parents, one hand holding her drink close to her chest. He glanced back at the Grangers before looking back at Granger, and it was odd, what happened then. Or rather, not what happened – but what he felt. Or what he felt about what she was clearly feeling, because it was obvious. It was written all over her face. And suddenly he found it more interesting to watch Granger than what everybody else had their eyes on in the room.

It was ridiculous, but it was astounding how much she appeared to be feeling over something as simple as her parents dancing together on their 25th wedding anniversary. She seemed so lost in it that she didn't notice him curiously watching her, nor did she notice anything else in the room – the slow movement as other couples began to join them. And he couldn't really explain what it was, either, about her at that specific moment. It wasn't just the dress he'd never seen her wear before – let alone guess that she'd ever have – or that she'd fixed up her hair and that, yes, he secretly understood why Muggle David had swooped in to talk to her when he did. In all of the shocking, barely-digestible prettiness of Granger, he could see something sad. The longing, the want, the hope to someday attain what they were all watching – except him, of course – in the room. It was so sappy, so heavy, that it was hard to swallow any of it down.

And suddenly, in the middle of it all, he pitied Potter. Even with the knowledge that he was probably bringing some strange girl to climax at this very moment, he actually _pitied_ him. Because he wasn't here. He wasn't here to see her.

And then it dawned on him that Granger had probably bought this dress with every intention of wearing it on Potter's arm. And that he, Draco Malfoy, was just a stand-in. A last resort. An accidental guest to this very moment transpiring in front of him, and to the overwhelming tide of disturbing emotions that seemed to be crashing in on him, with no precedent.

He was torn in between regretting he'd ever drank that vodka and pushing everyone out of the way to get to the bottle and drink it all.

He began making his way to the kitchen before the dance was over, managing to swallow down an entire plastic cup of alcohol before Granger suddenly came through the door. He froze in dread, thinking he was in it for sure. She was going to bite his head off, but not before making his ears bleed with her over-the-top lectures. He was done for.

But it didn't even seem as if she'd noticed him, as she went into a lower cupboard and pulled out a large bottle of alcohol. Draco was still watching her, silent, as she began heading back out of the kitchen. Then she stopped and turned to look at him.

"Well?" she said, expectantly. "Are you coming or not?"

* * *

**Note**: The song that Hermione's parents dance to in this chapter is "One Day" by Sharon Van Etten. I basically had it on repeat while I wrote this chapter, so check it out if you're interested! It's pretty relatable to the situation Draco and Hermione find themselves in this fic (call it a theme song, maybe?). Thanks for reading and feel free to drop me a line about what you thought about this chapter!


	3. Part 3

**A/N: **I lied! This is not, in fact, the last chapter!

**Part 3**

"What exactly do you plan to do with that?" he asked, as he followed her out of the house. This was a side of Granger he had never seen before. It made him both excited and terrified. Granger had always been a sensible drinker, after all – a glass of wine on the weekends, never a sip more. She was a responsible adult. Behind her back, Draco and Potter both agreed that she was about eighty years old.

"Perform a bit of surgery, what do you think?" She rolled her eyes at him.

The clicks of her heels against the cement became almost deafening as they got further and further away from the noise of the house. He suddenly became very aware that in the Muggle world, it was bedtime. They passed a house and he jerked a little when an automated garage light came on. "Fucking Muggle contraptions," he said to himself.

"Granger. Granger, where the hell are we going?" he asked, as he grabbed her arm to slow her down. He was trying to get a good look at her face. He was positively unsure how to cope with this spontaneous version of Granger that he had always believed was mythical. Had she hit her head sometime in the past twenty minutes? Had her parents' anniversary dance triggered some kind of personality switch?

She twisted her arm away and kept walking, perfectly calm. Somehow that only made things worse for him. "Relax, Malfoy. It's not far. I used to go there all the time when I was younger.

"Where, exactly?" He wondered if it was a ditch that they both could go lay down and die in.

"You'll see in a bit, won't you? Blimey, all these questions. You swear it's like I'm leading you to get eaten alive by a pack of wolves or something." She paused, as if mulling that over. She looked around. "I wonder if we've still got wolves around here."

After a few more minutes of walking, they finally came to a locked gate. When he looked past the bars and shrubs, he could see a playground. There were a few trees, a couple of benches, and a set of swings. But it was completely deserted.

"Bollocks," Draco said, flatly. He jingled the padlock. "Looks like we're due to head back to the flat then, hm? No shenanigans tonight!"

She pushed him out of the way and drew out her wand. "_Alohomora_," she whispered, and the gate's lock gave a resounding click before it slowly creaked open. She stowed her wand back into her enchanted bag and slipped in. Draco followed in after her.

She paused to take off her shoes, leaving them on the grass, before heading over to the swings. Draco watched her, amused. Out of all the places he'd have expected Granger to lead him – a Muggle playground was among the places he would not have guessed, ever. Muggle playgrounds symbolized fun and free spiritedness, two traits that Granger simply did not understand.

"A playground. Very mature, Granger. Can we go now? Before the wolves descend? Literally?"

"Oh shut up, Malfoy. You were dying in that house. I could see it all over your face." She twisted open the cap on the bottle and leaned back, taking a hearty swig, before making a face. "Jesus, that burns." She shuddered.

He scowled at her, exasperated. "You don't honestly expect me to babysit you while you down that entire bottle in a children's playground."

"Of course not. I expect you to be a big-headed prat and loudly complain to me while I down this entire bottle – in a children's playground," she smirked. She gestured him over. "Come over here. Sit down, for God's sake. Don't be such a bloody prima donna."

He begrudgingly made his way over to the swing next to her, cautiously taking a seat. "If you wanted to get out of the sodding house, we could have left. We could have Apparated back to the flat."

She shook her head. "No, I just needed to get out of there for awhile. Then I remembered this place. When I was younger, nobody came here anymore after a newer playground was built a few blocks down, so I would come here to lay down on the grass under that tree," she said, pointing to a sad little tree adjacent from them, "and read. And nobody else ever came, so after awhile it felt like it belonged to me. This place."

He surveyed the playground. The grass was still healthy, and aside from the rust, it wasn't in complete shambles. It was outdated, true, but wasn't Granger that, too?

It was so quiet where they were that he could hear the creaking of the chains of her swing as she slowly swayed, and the breath that she forced through her teeth after she took another drink. He watched her curiously, not knowing which approach to take to Granger's sudden heavy-handedness with alcohol. "Slow down" or "Drink up"? As much as he'd love an opportunity to collect priceless mortifying moments with drunk Granger to blackmail her with in the future, he did not feel much like babysitting her for the rest of the night. Babysitting had always been Granger's forte, not his. Beautiful people simply did not babysit.

"Did you know," she started, again, "that when I was younger, before Hogwarts ever sent me that letter, I used to spend days here trying to master the art of extreme swinging?"

He stared at her. Why did all Muggle things sound so stupid?

"Extreme swinging?"

"You know, hopping on the swing and seeing how high you could possibly go. I wanted to see if it was possible to go so high that I could wrap myself around the top bar and come back around the other side."

"That," he said to her, "sounds like the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Ever."

"Now it does," she said, sighing wistfully. "But I used to think the little moment when you're at the highest you could possibly be and you almost feel like gravity's going to let you go – that it would be the closest I would ever get to flying."

Draco watched her on the swing. She'd dropped the bottle beneath her and watched her white knuckles gripping onto the chain, her body leaning back and then forwards as the movement became faster and faster. His confusion at her sudden chattiness about these dumb Muggle playthings was then coupled by how mesmerized he suddenly became at watching her expertly maneuver these primitive-looking rubber swing seats. He watched her hair as the wind swept through them, back, then forth, and her creamy, long legs as they extended out, then curled back in, in perfect synchronization. And then her face. Her eyes as they fluttered; her lips as they started to stretch across her face in a blissful grin.

"Come on, Malfoy! Try it, you big prat!"

"I think you can handle looking juvenile and mentally-stunted on your own, Granger."

"Suit yourself!" she said, before doing something incredibly jarring: she cackled. Happily.

"You're regressing, truly. Right before my very eyes."

"Regressing my arse!" she called out to him. "Malfoy, watch this!"

"No," he said. "Whatever it is, it's a bad idea and I'm not going to carry your broken body to your parents' house and explain that you died because of a _swing_."

But she simply ignored him and, taking a deep humming breath as the swing reached its highest point, Draco watched as she threw her body off of the swing and onto the grass beneath it. He could have sworn his heart had leapt to his throat, thinking for sure that Granger was going to bash her face in on the ground and it would all be pegged on him as some sort of sick plan for revenge, in which case he would then be both homeless _and_ missing a few limbs, but there she was – as if by some trick of magic – standing, perfectly, on the grass, while the empty swing beside him was still moving, jerkily. She was smiling, and then, turning his way, she graciously bowed.

And then she fell backwards.

Without thinking, Draco jumped off of the swing, running to her. "Fuck!" He slid down on his knees, his eyes scanning her face. "Granger!" he breathed, sliding one hand under her head and slapping her cheek with his palm. "Granger, you stupid fucking idiot, wake up!"

And then her eyes fluttered open and she was smiling – no, laughing, actually. He sank back on his heels, releasing her and cursing her entire family.

"I got you, didn't I, Malfoy?" she wheezed, still laughing.

"Bloody hell, Granger," he exhaled, his heart still beating at a hundred miles per hour. He glared at her. "In what world was that supposed to be funny?"

"I didn't actually think you'd run over like you did," she said, still in a fit of laughter. "That you'd actually care, you know. If something happened to me."

"What? And have Potter and Weasley crucify me?" He sighed, watching as she fell into another fit of laughter, her hair fanned out underneath her on the grass. "You could at least pretend to be sorry, you nutter."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Not really, though. But I'll say it for your peace of mind. _I'm sorry_."

He shook his head. "I don't care what you say, Granger. I deserve a drink." And before she could protest, he was back on his feet and heading back to the swings. He plucked the bottle from the ground before walking back over. He sat down beside her on the grass. She started to quiet down but didn't move from where she was. She didn't say a single thing about the bottle. He wondered if he should check her for a concussion – and then realized he wouldn't even know where to begin. Her skull was still intact, for one. But what about the thing inside it? The slightly more important brainy part?

As he watched her, Draco silently wished she would at least shift her dress a little. He had to force himself to look away from her and the way her dress had ridden up a few very significant inches. He took a very generous gulp from her bottle.

"So this is how you are when you drink," he said. "You're mental. More mental than usual."

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Thought you'd say I was more fun."

"You? Fun?" he said. "There isn't enough vodka in the world, Granger."

She looked at him and smiled. He pulled his eyes away from her to take another drink. Heavens, what was happening to him? He was starting to feel anxious around her, and he wanted to drown those strange feelings in alcohol.

"I've been thinking about what you said about Harry, earlier. And – I know how it must look. But he's a decent man. The war took a lot from him, and I feel like this is his way of. . . recuperating."

"By shagging everything that moves? I thought that was my strategy. Bastard."

"I try to be understanding. I mean, it isn't like he's obligated to me. We're not romantically involved. I have no logical reason to be upset when he cancels."

The way she said it – he felt a faint twisting in his gut. Draco liked to think he knew a thing or two about denial. It had been a constant companion for him over these years. He knew it when he heard its pathetic tones slinking in – he knew its bloody signifiers.

"Yeah, that's convincing," Draco said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why do we always have to sodding talk about Potter? All the time, it's Potter, Potter, Potter. Like there wasn't anything worth talking about before he was born."

"Fine. Then we won't talk about Harry."

"Good. I'm bloody sick of it."

"Fine."

"Good."

They both lay there in silence, staring up at the sky. It was eerie, how dark it was, but the stars were out like little teasing winks and the moon was full. In the milky moonlight he could still make out Granger's face, her brow furrowed as she undoubtedly tried to think of some other dignity-leeching conversation topic. He took another drink, relishing the silence. For a minute, he saw her again, back in her parents' house. She'd closed her eyes for a few seconds during their dance and swayed along to the music. He wondered if she'd been imagining herself dancing with someone, too.

Who would have known Granger was as much of a sappy female as the rest of them?

Then, finally, she spoke. "Why?"

He blinked. "Is there a latter part to that question?"

"Why were you such a life-ruining, hallway-taunting, rude little arsehole when we were in school?" she said.

"Really, was that all I was?" he said, and she rolled her neck towards him and gave him her typical no-nonsense look. He sighed loudly. "What? What do you want to hear, Granger – that I was endlessly manipulated by my father, that I was flogged constantly, that I was brainwashed and controlled by my superiors?"

"Is that what happened?"

"What I'm saying," he said, "is that it doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. The past matters. You had a choice, Malfoy. Everyone did, and we all paid for it."

"Choice? Is that what it's called? Funny, because I never heard that word around the Manor. My father threw the word 'destiny' around a lot. A few years later I found out it was because he was sleeping with a prostitute named Destiny, but you can imagine it couldn't undo most of the damage it had already done."

He couldn't admit to the other stuff. How could he? To Granger? That he was a coward. That owning up to his faults meant that it hadn't all been bad upbringing and twisted morals. That, somewhere in between it all, it had been him. Purely him. Calling the shots, crossing the lines, seeing what he could possibly get away with. And – choice. What was choice? He remembered one hazy night when Dumbledore had called him into his office, and Snape had been there waiting for him. They'd said that word, too, and it was frustrating, really, how easy they made it seem. _Make a choice, Draco, because you _have_ a choice_. The concept of choice had been new to him at that point in his life. And he had been eighteen. He had bloody well been eighteen.

It was as if one day they decided he was more than a tool, that he was an actual autonomous individual that could do great harm if he wasn't put on the reins like sodding reindeer, like they did Potter. They said, _Just cut the strings your father has spent your entire life sewing into your bones, Draco, and fuck all_. _Come to us. Be a traitor, but at least you'll be a traitor for good. And that's bloody oceans different than being a traitor for evil._

So he made a choice. He stuck to the path of least resistance. And then fate, ever the meddling wench, corrected that. Now he was here, having to answer to someone like Granger. Every morning he came face-to-face with the reminder that his punishment was far from over.

"Do you regret it? Any of it?"

He had to think about that one. All of the tiny, blurred-out moments he'd had when he'd wondered whether there was more to it than what he'd been led to believe. And then the mental vanquishing of that thought when he realized that some people were born into the parts they were meant to play. But when he told Granger that, she only shook her head, her face hard, and told him that was rubbish.

She read into his subsequent silence. "How do you even live with yourself, Malfoy?"

_Because I'm not a decent person. I loved taunting you and Potter and Weasley. I loved knowing I was one of the few that didn't fall at Potter's feet. I loved knowing I was different, and I knew that if I were to ever join you, I would become invisible._

And perhaps Draco Lucius Malfoy was very many things in life (the list of traits varied from person to person) – but invisible he most definitely was not.

"It's easy, really. Beauty like this isn't born every day. I owe it to the universe to keep existing."

She laughed, empty and hollow, her gaze still on the night sky. "Beauty? You think you know beauty? Just because you were born genetically flawless and you've got eyes the color of rain and you've got perfectly-sized hands?"

Draco felt an unexpected splash of warmth on his face, a little stunned. "What? You think I've got perfectly-sized hands?"

"You don't know jackshit about beauty," she only went on, as if she hadn't heard him. "I'll tell you what beauty is. Family. Friends. Watching your parents dance on their 25th wedding anniversary, knowing how rare that is and how amazing it is to love someone for that long. Swinging on that sodding swing, and not having a care in the world," she said. "And having that perfect moment that you wish you could hold forever, praying that things would never change. And if you had a heart, Malfoy – a real, working, human heart – you'd know all of that. You'd feel a little something for someone other than yourself for a change. You'd know that goodness is worth fighting for."

She was glaring at him with her shiny Granger eyes full of purpose and conviction, and he couldn't look away. Didn't even have a prayer. He felt physically and internally frozen. Somehow he'd gotten closer to her, and his eyes – unmistakably on their own volition – flickered down her face to her swollen, pink, vodka-glazed lips. His ears felt fuzzy, and all there was was a lone breeze that swept in between them, making a strand of hair fall across her cheek. And he didn't know what possessed him to do it, absolutely no idea – certainly nothing that had come from generations of strategic Malfoy breeding – but he raised his hand and captured it in between two fingers, gently moving it aside, brushing his thumb against her temple.

"Granger," he murmured. He was so close he could almost taste her breath. It reeked of cheap alcohol.

And that's what did it. He let go of her and moved back, his head suddenly spinning, awash with the throbbing realization of what he had been about to do. While Granger, still on the grass, stared at him with wide eyes.

_Kiss her_, his stupidly drunk head said. _You were about to kiss her. And you really, really wanted to, you poor sod._

"Bloody hell," he said to himself, rubbing his face with his hand. He tried to slap himself sober. Or awake. Awake would be better, because that would mean this never ever happened. That this was just a dream. That in the morning there would be nothing to be embarrassed about.

"I think," Granger said, slowly getting up, "we should go." She swayed on her feet but steadied herself before Draco could help straighten her up. He hated the look she had in her eyes when she looked at him: careful, wary – and not in a good way that made him feel accomplished about himself, that usually entailed him knocking her down a few pegs on the Ladder of Self-Righteousness she and her little Gryffindor muppets were so keen on. But as if she didn't recognize him anymore.

He trailed after her, silently, as they left Granger's "private" Muggle playground.

_Can you blame her?_

Right now he hardly recognized himself.

ooo

**Day 72**

His head snapped up to Potter sitting across the table, his body leaned back and his arms crossed on his chest, his nationally hailed green eyes watching him from underneath his glasses.

"What?" Draco said, his voice hoarse. "Have I got something on my face?" He cleared his throat. "Aside from perfection, of course."

"You are aware," Harry said slowly, "that I've been calling your name for the past three minutes."

"You and all of the other women I've shagged, Potter," he scoffed. "Get in line."

"You're being strange this morning. And I don't think I like it."

"And you're not nearly as attractive as you think you are, but I resist the constant urge to tell you so, don't I?"

Harry appeared taken aback. He leaned in, lowering his voice, as if there was someone else in the house besides the pair of them. Potter could be so dramatic sometimes – Draco called it another symptom of the Hero Complex. "Are you okay? You're distant and grumpy. It's not like you. Truly, Malfoy. I'm concerned a little. Is Hermione not feeding you enough? I can have a talk with her if you'd like."

"Bugger off, Potter. I can fight my own battles."

Potter laughed. He actually laughed. "There are so many ways I could go with that statement, Draco, starting with your little stalemate with the Ministry – but I won't. Because I want to thank you for going to Hermione's parents' anniversary party with her. I'd hate it if she'd had to go alone. Her creepy neighbor's always at those things. I think his name is David? The first time I met him, I looked him in the eyes, and I got this very distinct feeling that he had no soul."

Draco scowled at him. As if he needed to be reminded about last night. He had spent the latter part of it in bed, trying to forget it ever happened. "I take it that you got to shag somebody's face off last night. Tell me, Potter, when did reaching orgasm inside a total stranger become more important than escorting your nerdy best friend to a boring Muggle party?"

Harry stared at him, quizzically. "See? This is what I mean! When did you get so. . . aggressive?" He slid his coffee aside. "Did she hex you last night for being yourself in public? And now you're angry with me? Honestly, Malfoy. You're almost starting to make me feel bad about myself."

Except that Draco knew perfectly well that the world would rather rotate backwards than have Harry Sodding Potter, Hero of the fucking free world, feel any sort of self-deprecating human emotion. And he hated it, too. Hated it that he was starting to feel bitter, hated all of thoughts he was beginning to think about him while Potter sat in front of him, genuinely concerned for Draco – which had been practically unheard of until recently. Whatever happened to just sitting back and enjoying the show, thanking the universe that he had enough sense never to get himself involved in anything that didn't properly worship him back? All of his life he'd worked so hard – perhaps the "so" was a bit excessive, but work he most certainly did – at maintaining the Malfoy legacy of thoroughly not giving a shit about others.

That was all he had now. The Manor had been temporarily and spitefully confiscated, along with his other belongings – aside from his fatal good looks, his standoffishness was one of the few things he had left going for him.

Draco put his head down on the table.

Leave it to the Muggle to shit all over that, too.

"I'll have a talk with her, don't you worry," Potter said, utterly clueless as usual. "I'm sure she's not doing it on purpose. All right, maybe a little. But she won't let it get too far." He paused. He stood up, taking his coffee with him. "I should probably go have that talk with her now."

o

In all of his time spent alone, he'd learned the general architecture of Granger's unimpressive flat building. In his explorations, he'd discovered that there was a rooftop nobody had access to – that is, until he enchanted it to remain unlocked, which turned out the best decision he'd ever made in his 72 days of being a homeless charity pot. Apparently he hadn't been its first visitor, because he'd found a few empty beer bottles and discarded lawn chairs. Draco, a sensible man, threw away the bottles and magically cleaned the chairs.

He hadn't seen Granger since last night. After the uncomfortable walk back to her parents' for her to say goodbye (he'd waited outside and contemplated bashing his head in on a creepy ceramic lawn gnome the Grangers had waiting beside the doorway), they'd Apparated back to the flat straight away. It was painful, the awareness of what happened and thus what _could_ _have_ happened, which compelled him to silently head straight into his bedroom and slam his door. He had meant it to be a symbolic gesture to the night. He wanted so many degrees of separation between him and that moment with Granger, which was hard to come by, knowing she was only a few walls away.

He made himself comfortable on the lawn chair, staring out into the darkening cityscape. What were the chances he could stay out here forever? Until he got the Manor back, of course. Then he would have as many degrees of separation between him and Granger that he could practically roll in it, if he wanted to.

He heard the creak of the door behind him.

"Imagine my surprise when Harry turns up at my office to ask me if I was feeding you properly," Granger said, in a fairly flimsy t-shirt and jeans, though her usual expression of annoyance was not entirely present. She set a covered plate at his feet, and he made sure to stay completely still, trying not to let on that her presence now unnerved him. Or rather, _did_ things to him, like make him wish for two impossible things, simultaneously: to be closer to her and to be far, far away.

"I brought you dinner. Not that I'd expect you to be grateful, or anything."

Draco glanced at her. She looked a little flushed, tucking a part of her hair behind her ear, expectant.

"You're bloody welcome," she said.

"My silence was my way of showing gratitude. Have we not established our methods of communication yet?"

She rolled her eyes. "Leave it to me to forget that a moment without any of your venomous input is rare. Honestly, I don't even know why I bother. Talking to you is like screaming at a wall. A really mean, inconsiderate wall."

He looked at her. And then, taking a breath, with his ancestors surely stirring with dissatisfaction in their graves, he said it. "I'm sorry."

She blinked, stunned. "What did you say?"

"Don't draw it out, all right? I said I was sorry. Thank you for bringing me my dinner – although, might I point out, that was entirely your volition. And I didn't say a thing to Potter. He assumed all of that – came up with it entirely on his own. What that says about him, I'm not sure, but it's probably not good."

Her face relaxed a little. "And you didn't correct him."

Draco scowled. "I already said I was sorry. I'm not saying it again. It already gutted me the first time."

Granger just looked at him in a way he couldn't exactly read. It made him squirm. He sighed impatiently and told her to get on.

"Fine. I just wanted to thank you, for coming with me last night."

He snorted. "Like I had a choice."

"No, you didn't," she admitted. "But the night wasn't as terrible as I thought it'd be. My parents thought you were decent. Aloof, but tolerable. My mum even asked me if that was your real shade of blond."

He looked at her. Did she remember? She had to, otherwise the palpable tension and weirdness between them wouldn't be here and sitting on both their faces. Unless it was all him. Good god, was it all him? Were all of these feelings purely his imagination? That it was a possibility that she could be standing there, thinking him utterly weird, due to the fact that she had no recollection of last night? He stopped himself.

_Bloody hell, I've become a woman_, he lamented.

"Anyway," she said, taking a hesitant step back, seemingly puzzled by his silence. "I'll leave you to it. Whatever this is you're doing."

"I'm sitting," he told her. "On your rooftop."

It was hardly anything to be weirded out about.

Granger simply nodded at this and turned around, exiting the roof. He watched her go before turning back around in his chair, sighing and closing his eyes. He could feel his pulse in his ears, spelling out his doom.

He leaned his head back. "Why do you hate me?" he muttered to the sky. "Is it because I'm so beautiful? Because it's not my fault, you know. I shouldn't be punished for something I can't help."

He just couldn't believe his sodding luck.

ooo

**Day 81**

They were at a party – all of them, collectively, which was saying something. Even Weasley had come, who had made sure to show his dissatisfaction with the fact that they had dragged Draco along, with no attempt at discreetly whispering it behind his back like a proper human being. Then again, Draco had already known the unsophisticated manner in which the Weasleys conducted themselves. It was practically in their DNA.

"Is he really necessary?" Weasley grunted to both Granger and Potter.

"That's a good question," some irrelevant Gryffindor named Dean Thomas said.

"Necessary. Such a big word for such a small brain, isn't it, Weasley?" Draco drawled. He felt like they were at school again. Ah, the glory days when he'd still had a place to live and didn't have a crush on a girl infatuated with the two dullest things in the world: the color beige and everyone's favorite bedtime hero, Harry Potter.

"Honestly, you two. Play nice. Ron, what was I supposed to do? Leave him at home?" Granger said, exasperatedly. She grabbed a glass of wine from a server and took no time in chugging it down.

"For one, yes. He's public hazard," Weasley said. "Every time I look at him smirking that stupid smirk, my knuckles start to itch, like they're aching to beat his face in."

"Quite the intellectual, this one," Draco observed. "Couldn't even think of a different word for 'smirk.'"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Granger said. "Let's just try and be civil for one night. Everyone's here, so let's act like adults. Proper adults, all right? Is that so hard?"

Draco threw his hands up at the pointed look Granger gave him. "Why do I get the pointed look? He's the one who's admitted to wanting to physically harm me!"

"Somehow I found that totally reasonable. Do we need to set up a system? Fine, we'll do that. Malfoy, you're to be on the opposite side of the room from Ron at all times. If you two do so much as even breathe on each other, you're sleeping in the street, Malfoy."

"You know that threat's getting awfully old."

"I would do what she says," Potter advised, sneaking in-between them with a glass of champagne. "I live with Ron. I can tell you for a fact that I sometimes hear him muttering in his sleep about how lovely it would be to rip your throat out. With his bare hands."

He looked back at Granger, who was looking expectantly at him. She was looking nice today – a silky red blouse that showed off her shapely collarbone but was demure enough not to give any respectable male any dirty ideas. He hated to admit it, but he secretly relished the moments he could steal just to look at her. Especially in front of her nimrod friends.

"Let's have a drink over there, shall we?" Potter said, giving him a manly pat on the shoulder.

"One drink," Granger said sternly. "Savor it, Malfoy, because that's all you're getting tonight."

Draco called her a lewd name that hardly jostled her before he and Potter began heading towards the refreshments. Potter was chuckling to himself. "She's got your balls in a vice-grip, mate. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Better her than you," he muttered. "At least she knows the proper way to handle them."

Draco's one and only drink for the night spilled over when Potter's elbow jammed into his rib.

oo

The real star of the night – aside from Potter, of course, who was universally adored in any and every room, even when he wasn't present – was Quidditch Star Viktor Krum. It was, after all, a party in his honor. All of the Quidditch aficionados swarmed to him – even Weasley, from what he could see, melted a little in his masculine posture when Viktor approached him for a handshake.

"What a tosser," Draco grumbled under his breath, standing on the outer edges with Potter.

"He's all right. Not the brightest bulb in the bunch, but that's probably due to the record-breaking sixty-two concussions he's had in his Quidditch career. And counting."

Draco watched as Viktor Krum made his way over to Granger in the crowd and they exchanged a warm greeting. Meanwhile, he noticed a very pretty albeit uninvested brunette on his arm. He was aware of the history between Krum and Granger – after all, who could forget that fateful day Granger showed up to the Great Hall in the dress that stunned even him, the quickest mouth in the school, and then the utter disappointment when she spent the night on Viktor Hulking Krum's arm? It was such an unlikely, befuddling pair that even he was rendered speechless. Even now it perplexed him.

"What do you think Krum's saying to Granger?" Draco said.

"Probably introducing her to his new fiancée."

"Fiancée?" Draco echoed. He looked over to the girl on his arm, who offered Granger a handshake. In his five minutes of watching her, she had yet to change her facial expression. "Seems like a lively girl. Life of the party, isn't she?"

Potter nodded, chewing on a hors d'oeuvre. "Bulgarian, just like him. Nice girl. Barely speaks a lick of English, but seems to like him. What about you? Do you want to get married?"

Draco scoffed, still watching the interaction. "Not without a ring first, Potter. If you think I'd marry you without a large diamond on my finger, you're the daftest man on earth."

"I meant to a woman. A nice one. One that'll put up with you," he said, rolling his eyes. "If she even exists. Seems cruel to think some baby girl was born with a destiny that somehow involves having to fall in love with you. Though it's possible she might have committed genocide in a past life."

He couldn't help it – he watched Granger through the crowd, looking embarrassed as Viktor continued to talk to her and as his fiancée stoically looked on. He wondered what Krum was talking so enthusiastically to her for. Reminiscing about times passed, perhaps? God, he almost felt his food come back up. Hard to imagine those offensively large hands had been on her at one point or another.

"Now is hardly the time to get all mushy, Potter."

"I don't know what you're so worried about, Draco. You're a catch," Potter only grinned, slapping him on the back. "Any girl would be lucky to have you destroying her sense of self-esteem any day. Reducing her to tears right while in the middle of sex could be the new orgasm."

"Shut up, will you?" he finally said, turning to him. "For your information, I have made a woman shed tears during sex. She said it was so beautiful, like heaven. But with more shagging and screaming into oblivion."

Potter smirked, grabbing another glass of champagne. "By the way, Viktor challenged us to a game of pick-up Quidditch tomorrow. It's his team versus ours."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Ours?"

"Of course. You're Seeker," said Potter. He patted Draco on the cheek. This wanker had to be drunk. "Please, no tears. It was my pleasure. You can send my fanmail to the usual address, knickers included. Not yours, though. That would be odd."

oo

They left the party at a decent hour for a Friday night. Potter left with some girl's poor heart in his back pocket, as usual, Weasley with an unsurprising gruff threat, and Granger being oddly quiet. He went into his room to have a cup of tea and to read, but then changed his mind and headed up to the roof instead.

When he came up, however, he found that somebody had already taken his seat.

"I'd apologize for stealing your spot, but seeing as how it was never yours in the first place because you don't actually live here, I hope you can understand why that apology is not exactly forthcoming," Granger said, as he sat down beside her. She had a mug of steaming tea beside her foot and a blanket wrapped around her.

He watched her face. "Tearful reunion with your ex-boyfriend and his mute fiancée?"

"Something like that," she said, faintly smiling. "And she's not mute, Malfoy. She just speaks very little English."

"As in none at all. Basically, mute."

"Still not exactly the correct use of the word." She glanced at him, giving him a look-over. "I take it you'd taken my advice and stayed away from Ron, seeing as how your face is still intact."

"I want to live to get my Manor back and give the Ministry hell," he said. "And if that means resisting the urge to rub Weasley's overall sad existence in his face, then so be it. I'll have plenty of time for that in the future."

Granger nodded passively. "I'm sure Ron will be ready for you."

Draco leaned back, watching the lights in the distance. Somebody must have left their flat window open because he could hear faint music playing.

"You're not sulking, are you?"

"What, and be you?" she scoffed. "Sit here and blame the world for all my problems?"

"I keep trying to tell you, Granger, that you're trying to hurt feelings that simply aren't there." He paused, watching her lack of a reaction. "Are you thinking about Viktor? That mountain of flesh and nonexistent brain activity?"

She said nothing.

"Don't mistake this as me comforting you – it's simply me stating a fact. You're missing nothing. Viktor Krum has been concussed so many times during Quidditch matches that not only has he no nerve endings left – making him a killing machine – he is not capable of anything resembling a deep thought."

She laughed. "I wasn't thinking about Viktor – at least, not in that way. I don't miss him nor do I regret anything that has to do with him."

"How mature of you," Draco said dryly. "But it still doesn't explain why you're up here."

"I don't need an explanation, Malfoy. This is my flat building." She shifted her blanket around her. "Besides, I know you. You can stop pretending to care. It's a bit much, actually."

"True as that may be, I have nothing better to do."

"That's hardly any consolation."

He shrugged. "It wasn't meant to be. What else are you going to do? Write it in your little diary? Write yourself a little memo so you can persuade yourself into thinking that talking to Potter about it tomorrow will make you feel better? Or what about Weasley, that vessel of pure human intellect? Face it, Granger. I'm the best one you've got."

She rolled her eyes, but didn't deny it. She spent a moment gnawing on her bottom lip, as if deep in thought, before finally speaking.

"Viktor was the first boy to ever tell me he loved me," she started, hesitantly. "We were young, of course, and hardly knew what that even meant. I suppose we all had ideas about it, but they're all just ideas. I remember Lavender and Parvati going on about it in the dorms, how special it's supposed to be, but when he told me. . . I was scared. I didn't love him, not like that, but it was also like it was such a big responsibility to accept his love. Like if I stood there and accepted it, it meant that I was making a promise not to hurt him." Her voice became quieter, her brown eyes shifting to his, steady. "Not that I was planning to hurt him, it's just that promises like those are meaningless. People hurt people. That's just the way things are, isn't it?"

He didn't know what to say. He just sat there, looking at her, with his perfect blond head full of questions. Things like, Why couldn't he just kiss her? Why would that be so bad? Why did she have to care about people that didn't deserve a single thought in her brain? Why had she come to the roof to be alone, a place she'd known that he could easily find her? Why was his heart beating so fast, and why were his palms sweating? And was she feeling any of this, like he was?

When he spoke, he endeavored hard at sounding nonchalant. "So what did you say back to the poor sod?"

"I said Thank you," she said, blushing. "And that I really liked him."

"That's what's keeping you up? Guilt over something that happened so long ago it shouldn't even be a blip on your memory radar?"

"I didn't say it was keeping me up, did I?" she said. "It was just a thought, and you insisted. Besides, what do you do up here, anyway? Just sit here and watch the building next door?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. It gives me a break from all the sodding _beige_."

She looked at him and threw her head back and laughed. "I can't tell you how much it pleases me that my choice in wall paint tortures you."

"There's nothing funny about bad taste, Granger."

"No, but you look utterly miserable," she said, quieting down from her fit of laughter, smiling. And for a moment they just sat there and looked at each other, not saying a word, before the music finally stopped and it seemed to jar the both of them back to life. Granger cleared her throat and shifted in her seat while Draco looked away, distractedly running one hand through his hair.

"I'm going to head to bed," she said, picking up her tea and keeping her blanket wrapped around her. "I'll see you in the morning, I suppose."

Draco only nodded. After she'd gone, he cursed at the sky. A minute later, the music started playing again. When he looked back at where she'd sat, his mother was there, having a cigarette. He sighed.

"My boy. You look a little worse for wear. What's troubling you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just a bit tired from the party."

Narcissa chuckled to herself. "You can lie to everyone, Draco, but not to me. What is it, really? Is it that girl? The mousy one with all the books? The one that sat here and tried to talk to you about love?"

"No. What? I hardly even think about her."

"Nonsense. You haven't slept in days. She's all you think about, isn't she? I remember when your father and I were just starting to fall in love. It was intoxicating. He never left my mind. I was just a girl then, of course, but I'll never forget it."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, squinting his eyes shut. "Please, Mother. You don't know what you're talking about."

He was crazy. Clinically crazy. How else could he explain seeing his dead mother and having conversations with her every so often?

"Things are changing for you, Draco. I can feel it. Granted, I'm only an imaginary figure in your subconscious, but that only means I know you better than you know yourself. You like her. But you're scared to think she might like you back. Why is that? Everyone likes you, Draco. You're smart, you're fit, and you're offensively pretty for a boy. Everyone likes you."

"Not her," he said, frustrated. "She's different. When she looks at me, it feels like she's peeling back my skin." But when he looked at the chair beside him, expecting an explanation, his mother was gone. He sighed. "See you next time, Mum. As always, thanks for the stimulating chat."

ooo

**Day 82**

Potter was squinting at him, already glistening from their pre-game warm-up. Draco, meanwhile, was surveying the pathetic excuse of a team Potter had rallied together for this game of pick-up Quidditch against one of the most renowned international Quidditch teams in the world. He recognized all of them from school – a few from Hufflepuff, some from Ravenclaw, and the most from Gryffindor. There was one other from Slytherin, but he'd graduated long after they'd gone and thus didn't feel much need for a connection.

"How long has it been since you played?" Potter asked him, as Draco tightened his gloves.

"Don't you worry your lacey little knickers, Potter. I'll grab the snotty little Snitch for you. I could do it in my sleep."

Potter just smiled at him. "I take it this means you've improved since we've been in school."

"Sod off. Don't you have a team to boss around? We hardly have enough time for you to stand around flirting with me."

Weasley whizzed by, circling them before making a clean drop on the grass. "Flirting? Who's flirting?"

"Potter, as usual, is making unbecoming advances on me," he drawled. "Jealous?"

Weasley only scowled at him, before turning to Potter. "Was it really necessary to draft this wanker to play with us?"

"There you are with that word again, Weasley."

"I can't be both Captain and Seeker, Ron. Not if we want to stick it to Viktor and his team. I mean, we don't have a prayer, not really – but I'd like to make it a really close match just so I can escape today with just a little bit of my dignity intact. So shake hands, will you? Be teammates. Just for the next few hours."

Weasley continued to glare at him. "There's no way I'm shaking his hand. That's if he's even got hands. I've heard demons have hooves, not fingers."

Then, before Draco could get a good insult in, the always-impeccably-timed Granger popped her frizzy head into their little intimate huddle. It was a cold morning with a little bit of drizzle, and her nose and cheeks were a pleasant shade of pink. Her breath came out in wispy vapors. Draco was rattled just a little bit as he remembered last night.

"Well? How are you lot feeling?"

"Like we're going to lose terribly, but still going to give it all we've got," Potter grinned. He turned his head to watch Viktor's team in the distance, doing loops and dives on their brooms. "Merlin, look at them. They're all pure muscle, aren't they?" He chuckled lowly to himself, shaking his head as he wrapped up his hand. "We're all going to die."

"Our captain's quite the inspiration," Draco said.

"Well, good luck, anyway," Granger said, her worried look not much of a consolation. "Try not to hurt yourselves too badly."

"You going to say that to your old sweetie over there, too?" Weasley remarked. "Going to get another concussion today, is he?"

"Ron, you nearly pissed yourself shaking his hand just last night," Granger said. "I'll be in the stands. Just – please be careful, all of you." And as she said this, Draco could have sworn – though it happened so quickly he would have missed it if he'd done so much as blinked – that she'd met his eyes. He felt his stomach take a dive, and he silently watched her turn around and walk back towards the stands.

Weasley firmly bumped his shoulder as he walked past, growling under his breath. "She didn't mean you, tosser."

As they spent a little more time warming up and discussing the plays they planned to run, Draco noticed as the stands began to slowly fill. All of Viktor's friends, he presumed, and most of everyone that had hung around after Hogwarts – not to mention a reporter or two from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly. As he mounted his broom and flew in the join the huddle, he could spot Granger clearly in the stands. She was sitting with Weasley's sister and the moonfaced blond girl from Ravenclaw.

After what he could only call a rusty, mediocre pep talk from their illustrious Captain Potter, they all flew into formation, waiting for the whistle to start the game. Draco relished the feeling of being on a broom again – granted, this was on loan from Potter and was miles away in quality from his own broom stashed away at the Manor, but it flew smooth and strong, which was all a lad could ask for in a game of Quidditch. The bludgers and the Snitch were released, therefore officially starting the game, and he felt an unmistakable rush in his veins as the crowd roared. Catching a glimpse of gold zing past him, he spun and dove after it.

Viktor's team led the first few points, of course – but their makeshift team captained by Potter soon began to catch up, much to the shock of literally everyone. Potter, his face already bloodstained, was transformed completely by the most distant possibility of winning an impossible game. He became ruthless. The further the game got, the more focused and synchronized their team became. Draco was dodging bludgers left and right and had already been smashed up against the wall by the other team's Seeker, a gruff Bulgarian with an unfortunate yet oddly threatening unibrow. He had surprising speed for someone so large and solid – but Draco was even faster.

Viktor's team was only leading by ten points, and Potter was on his neck for him to find the Snitch. He could feel the raw energy of the crowd as he strained his eyes looking for the little bugger. As he waited there, scanning the field, it began to lightly rain. And then there it was – a wet tinkle against metal, a flash of gold, right beside Weasley's ear. He dove in for the kill.

He missed Weasley by a hair – "That was a close one, you bastard!" – and predicted the Snitch's sharp turn to the right, towards the stands. The other Seeker was at his heels and Draco could see him inch up beside him from the corner of his eye. He tried to shove aside Draco to slow him down, but Draco either dodged him or sped up. The Snitch was in clear view in front of him. He reached out his arm – he could almost touch it with his fingers, if only he could go a little faster. . .

Then he had an idea. Keeping his speed, he hurled himself at the Snitch, letting go of his broom. He'd just enclosed his fingers around it and expected to land right back where he'd been on his broom when suddenly from his right came Viktor Krum, the Killing Machine, who bashed him up against the wall so hard that he felt his skull snap back. His vision blacked out instantly and before he knew it, before he could even think to say a prayer for his poor soul, he was unfettered and heading dead straight for the ground below.

* * *

Thanks for reading and please review!


	4. Part 4

**A/N:** Thanks so much to all of you reading and reviewing! You guys are rad, and I hope you guys like this chapter because it's been a long time coming! It's wrapping up so you guys can expect one last chapter after this! Enjoy!

* * *

**Part 4**

Draco Malfoy knew straight away that he wasn't dead. For one, being dead could not possibly hurt this much. And two, he could hear whispers. He had enough common sense to know that people didn't whisper in hell. Screaming was probably more their style.

When he opened his eyes, he became aware of the crowd of strange men huddled around his bed. They were all damp and muddy and incredibly unwelcome. Couldn't a man just recuperate from a paralyzing body-smash in peace?

"There's the hero of the hour!" Potter said, the closest seated to him to his left. His glasses were crooked and there was dried blood alongside his jaw. Draco winced, not even wanting to imagine how much worse off he looked. He was the one in the hospital bed, after all. Not to mention parts of his body were hurting that he wasn't even aware could feel pain.

"Now let's not get too carried away," Weasley muttered.

"We won the match! Can you believe it? All because you're a suicidal prat, leaping off your broom like that. And Viktor crashing into you! It looked like he'd broken every single bone in your body. It was bloody amazing, Malfoy. It was a good thing Hermione was on her game, as usual, and stopped you from hitting the ground just seconds before you would've become lunch meat." He was shaking his head in disbelief. "I've seen some stunning Quidditch matches in my time, but that was, by far, the greatest. It helps that you were the one getting the beating. But regardless!"

"Please," Draco moaned, his head pounding. "Shut up and sod off. All of you."

"Right. I imagine the pain must be excruciating," Potter said, still grinning good-naturedly. He stood up from his seat and Draco glared at him – for any reason, really. For being Potter. For simply existing. For thinking it was okay to breathe his air. "We're having a party tonight at my place to celebrate our win. You're the guest of honor. Hermione'll take you right after you're all cleaned up."

"More like the guest of _dis_honor," Weasley once again felt the need to correct. "Honestly, Harry. His head is already as big enough as it is. There's no need to go around inflating it."

With a few more well-wishes and inconsiderate pats on the shoulder ("Stop touching me, all of you, or I will personally murder each of you in your sleep!") the tired but satisfied mob of Quidditch players finally bustled out of the room. Draco sighed, staring up at the ceiling – that is, until he caught one last lone figure in the corner of his eye.

It was Granger, quietly sitting in one of the chairs. His view of her must have been obstructed by the bodies of sweaty, burly men because he couldn't recall seeing her when he'd first opened his eyes. The whole sight of her was laughable – damp hair slowly frizzing, clothes completely soaked, skin entirely pale – but undeniably the most welcome. He felt his heart sigh at the sight of her. It was utterly pathetic. Out of all the people he'd have guessed to ever want to see beside his hospital bed after a particularly traumatizing Quidditch match, Granger's name would have never even come up in times past. Not even a blip on his radar. Now it was the only name that could ever catch him tongue-tied.

"You look bloody terrible," she frowned, inching in closer to him.

"Me? I feel invincible," he said. His voice sounded and felt like gravel. That or as if he'd been chain-smoking since the day he was born, which wasn't entirely out of the question. Granger shook her head.

"At least you're alive," she said softly. "From where I was sitting – it looked like your neck had completely twisted backwards. I kept hoping Viktor's hit was softer than it looked, but you've got a few broken bones, Malfoy. Major ones, including a clavicle and two ribs. They're mending as we speak, but it's going to be a few painful hours of sitting utterly motionless in that bed before you're going to be able to strut around like the ponce you make yourself out to be."

"I'd be careful if I were you, Granger. You're beginning to look altogether too pleased that I lived through the horrific experience of getting crushed by the sheer, solid mass your ex-boyfriend calls a body," he said. He couldn't help the smirk. It was worth the pain to catch her blush before deflecting it with her typical rolling of the eyes.

"You're clearly delirious. Viktor must have knocked something loose in your head. I'll go call on the nurse, shall I?"

She got up from her chair, but before she could walk away, he shot out his hand and grabbed her wrist. She stopped and turned, the surprise evident on her face. He silently wondered – if he pressed his finger just a little bit firmer on her pulse point, would he feel her heart rate quickening at this very moment?

"Granger," he said. He licked his lips, looking at her. "Thanks. For saving me. Getting to your wand in time, at least. I have a feeling I would've been a lot worse off if you hadn't."

Try dead, really.

She smiled at him, really smiled, as if she'd forgotten she had spent the better part of her life wishing he'd never been born. And for a minute he thought she really did. "You're welcome, Malfoy. Though the fact that you're saying thanks really does mean I should go and get the nurse. She said to call her as soon as you were awake. She's got a few more droughts for the pain."

He let his hand linger for a second more before he let her go, watching her as she disappeared behind the curtain. He stared up at the vacant ceiling as he sighed, trying hard to remember what had happened after he'd closed his fingers in around on the Snitch. He still flinched as he remembered the brutal impact of Krum colliding against him, the painful breaks of bone and nerves splitting he felt inside his body, and his fading awareness as he was throttled down to the ground from a great height. His last thought must have been something about the suddenly heightened possibility that his privileged life was about to become a very short one. He couldn't remember if he'd even felt sad about it. It was possible he'd felt nothing at all.

But as he dug further within the deep recesses of his hazy mind, he could faintly recall what had happened afterwards. That shattering impact of his body hitting the ground never came – though he wasn't sure he would have felt it anyway, seeing as how most of consciousness had webbed away by that time. But through all of white noise he'd heard one person above the rest, calling his name, and then soft damp hands on his face, sweeping aside his wet, matted hair.

"_Draco. Draco. Draco, you're going to be okay, do you hear me?"_

And he didn't have to ask to know. He could feel the answer deep in his bones. He could still see her now, the blurry image of her hovering above him, her hair falling like a curtain around him, telling him to stay awake. She had smelled like vanilla and honey. Was that what paradise smelled like, he wondered. For everyone or just for him?

She had been the one to reach him first.

ooo

"Potter doesn't actually expect me to believe him, does he?" Draco grumbled, as Granger helped him sit up, much to the chagrin of his attending nurse. She'd prescribed at least twelve to twenty-four hours of bed rest for his injuries to mend and had given them both a glare worthy to warrant its own deflecting spell when she was notified of Draco's required presence at a celebratory party later on that night. She would have given even Madam Pomfrey a run for her money.

"That he's actually throwing a party in my honor," he said, before wincing.

"You are the one that nearly gave your life to catch the Snitch," Granger said. "Besides, Harry was impressed with you. He was thrilled about the win. He didn't think it was going to happen."

"Well remind me to allow him the privilege of kissing upon my hand later on this evening," Draco said dryly. He was short of breath just from trying to get his legs down from the bed. "Bloody hell, Granger. I feel like I've been run over by a train. Seventy million times." When she didn't respond, he looked up at her to catch her staring at his bare chest, or rather – the gigantic purple bruises that covered it like oceans on a bare earth. He couldn't glimpse down at them himself without wincing, but he ignored that. He could never pass up a moment to mortify her. "Like what you see?"

Granger's eyes snapped back up to his face. Her brief moment of being flustered was quickly eclipsed by annoyance, then pity. "Somehow I get the feeling the train would have been a little more merciful," she said. And then she got oddly quiet, chewing on her bottom lip.

"What?" he said. "I look awful, I know. If it's any consolation, I did almost die."

"Not that, you prat," she said. "It's just. . . do you need me to help you? Get dressed."

He stared at her charmingly flaming cheeks, realizing the issue at hand. He could barely elevate his legs without having to muffle his groans of agony, but he was hardly ready for Granger to help him put on his trousers like some inept toddler. Besides, the ideal situation would have been Granger pulling _off_ his trousers – not putting them back on him. And Draco, though still recovering from a near-death experience, was still a romantic.

"Just the shirt. The trousers I can manage," he said, trying to sound more convincing than he actually felt.

Granger obviously didn't believe him but didn't say a word, grabbing a shirt she'd snagged from his closet when she'd made a quick trip back to her flat during his nap. She unbuttoned it and carefully slipped it through one of his arms, while he managed the other – though not without biting back a whimper of pain. She stood back as he took care of the buttons and grumbled to himself.

"Just so you know, I'm not enjoying any bit of this. I've been dressing myself since I was three. This is incredibly emasculating." When he was done, he looked up at her. "Now I need you to do exactly what I say. Don't question it, all right?"

Granger nodded.

"Hand me my wand." She grabbed it off of the side table and handed it to him. "I'm going to put a silencing spell on myself, and then you're going to hand me my trousers and quickly step away and draw the curtain. You can come back in when you hear my voice."

She agreed and watched as Draco pointed his own wand to his throat and said, "_Silencio_." Handing him his trousers, she then promptly walked out of view and drew the white curtain behind her. Draco, taking a deep breath and grabbing hold of his trousers, braced himself. He screamed to his heart's desire while he could still see Granger's silhouette against the curtain, patiently waiting and ready to dive in at the first sign of any trouble.

When he finally undid the spell, he was panting and redfaced and near the brink of passing out. Granger swept the curtain aside, watching him carefully, albeit noting the fact that the trousers were now on him.

"Malfoy," she said, stifling a laugh. "Are those – tears? Actual tears?"

He scowled at her, before grabbing the last bottle of pain drought the nurse had left for him. Instantly he could feel it trickling through his system, giving him some temporary respite from the flashing agony. He stood himself up, fighting the urge to curl over from the pain that shot through his abdomen. Merlin, it hurt to be a man. To think he could have avoided all of this simply by telling Potter to shove his Seeker proposition up his arse! But then he looked up and caught Granger's eye and felt something dip low inside him, only to climb back up again.

"Sod off, Granger. Don't we have a party to get to?"

ooo

He should have been charmed that Potter had gone all out for their celebratory party in which Draco was rightly the guest of honor, but upon walking in with Granger he realized that it was populated with a lot of people from their years at Hogwarts he did not care to ever speak to again. They all congratulated him, inching in to clap him on the shoulder, and then promptly regretted it when Draco grumpily told them to slink off to some corner somewhere and die.

"Nice to see your concussion hasn't altered your general dislike for the rest of the human population one bit," Granger said, faintly amused, as Draco took another swig of his pain drought.

"Then it wouldn't nearly be quite as much fun, would it?" Potter said, inserting himself into their conversation. He had a beer in one hand and a lipstick mark on his cheek, which Draco watched Granger's eyes land on for a split-second before taking a generous sip of her champagne. "Torturing poor Draco with our affection. Well, you earned it, mate."

"What do I have to do to _un_earn it?" Draco said. "Punch you in the face? Make fun of your dead parents? Make you cry in public?"

Potter only amicably patted him on the cheek. Draco would have wrestled away had his body not seemed to break out in pain spasms every time he moved. "Nice try. This is a party for you. Well, not for _you_ per se, but for your Quidditch skills. Which are a part of you. A small part, granted, but still. So here's to celebrating a small part of you!" Potter said, raising his glass to him, before happily excusing himself and brushing past.

When he looked back at Granger, her champagne glass had already been sucked dry. "Granger—" he began, but what was he going to say? Forget about him, he's a wanker. A world-saving wanker, but still a wanker nonetheless, which is the operative word here. But as the words ribboned through his mind, he could almost imagine the scene playing out between them. She would realize just how much she was starting to mean to him. Draco felt his conscience jerk awake at that, the hypotheticals suddenly dawning on him. Why should he have to comfort her? She was Granger, wasn't she – why couldn't she have enough sense to see it herself? To control her feelings in the face of real fact (fact: Potter was not pining away for her like she was for him)? To resist being so pathetic?

And suddenly Draco went from almost relinquishing to his desire to make her feel less miserable to being utterly annoyed with her.

"You're not going to be the fun-sucking school teacher here and tell me I can't drink at my own celebratory party, are you?" he ended up saying instead, a bit harsher than he'd intended it.

She looked taken aback, but with one blink of her eyes, resumed her evident disdain for him. "No," she said icily, while Draco tried to ignore the minutest bit of hurt that flashed in her eyes. "I won't be sucking any fun out of tonight for anyone today. Not even for you, Malfoy."

With that, Granger whipped around and walked away from him, disappearing in between the mob of faceless, laughing people. Draco finished off what was left of his pain drought and set it aside, moving in the opposite direction to find himself a real drink.

_This is normal. Hating each other_, he thought. _This is the way things should be_ _– the natural sodding order of the world_.

But as the party went on, Potter stopping by every now and then to remind him of the very reason his divinely-sculpted body had almost been broken to bloody bits, he realized that just because he'd laid down some well-needed distance between him and Granger didn't mean she was far from his thoughts. Even when some blonde chit tried chatting him up, claiming some obscure connection to him from Hogwarts, he couldn't help but think of how Granger would never conduct herself in precisely this manner – laughing at jokes that weren't funny, worn a skirt she didn't have a hope of bending down in, or acting less intelligent than the poor girl probably actually was, all for the sake of a one-night shag. He pitied her, but most of all, he pitied himself. He could not stop comparing every single female in the room to Granger, dull forgettable Granger, and it frustrated him beyond belief, because they all had the grim and uncanny misfortune of coming up short.

"Get a hold of yourself, Draco," he hissed to himself in Potter's loo, after having splashed some cold water on his face. "Granger is nobody. She's worse than nobody – she's an uptight prude that's decorated her flat with a color that makes even Lucifer's balls shrivel up his arse it's so repulsive." He glared at himself. "She's _off-limits_."

He affirmed this to himself even when, upon leaving the loo, a small voice in his mind wondered aloud if she really was.

When he saw her again, she was off in a corner with Potter. She didn't have a drink in her hand, at least, but something in his gut twisted like a little girl French braiding hair when she leaned in to whisper something in his ear. A few minutes later, Granger began to move through the crowd, heading towards the exit. He handed his drink off to some drunk passerby and followed after her.

He found her in the tasteless, nondescript hallway of Potter's flat building. When he called her name, she froze and then cautiously turned around.

"Well, Malfoy?" she said, her eyes narrowed at him. "Have I succeeded in not sucking the fun out of your evening? Though that would be so unlike me, wouldn't it? Being the resident fun-sucker and everything."

Draco only shook his head, wetting the dry hollow of his throat. "I didn't mean it. Well, I meant it a little, but I shouldn't have said it that way. Though you wouldn't exactly be featured on a billboard for fun, which I think is common knowledge. The sheer volume of books your flat contains is enough to disqualify you in the first round."

She raised one eyebrow at him, but at least her hostility had dialed down a few notches. This was his version of an apology. A semi-apology, at least. An apology without the actual apology, a masterful skill endowed to very few. "Unless you have a point you're getting at, Malfoy, I think it'd be best if you went back to your party." She sounded exhausted.

Draco came closer to her, and she watched him, closely. "Why did you run to me, Granger? At the Pitch, after Viktor crushed all of the feeling out of my body. You were the first one. I just," he said, his breath hot and his voice hoarse, "I have to know."

Something changed on her face. The way her eyes were flickering over him, like she was trying to peer inside his head. "You were hurt. It was instinct. I would have done exactly the same for Harry and Ron."

"But that's it, isn't it? I'm not them. I'm not either of them."

"No," she said, quietly. Cryptically. Agonizingly. "You're not."

"So why?" he asked, and it was funny, that question. Three letters yet it had seemed to sum up his entire experience since the Ministry had seized all of his worldly possessions. Every morning and every night, the word would be burned into his brain in all of its simplistic glory. There were a magnitude of answers but never one that could stand rightly on his own – yet all of those "why"s seemed so trivial in the shadow of this particular why. This was the why that his heart shuddered under. This was the why that made his soul ache from a suddenly realized incompleteness, not knowing the answer. It tore him from this physical moment and plunged him in a dark, terrifying place of vulnerability and unfettered impossible hopes. If this why had a name, it would be Goliath.

"Because I'm a decent person, Malfoy," she said, softly. "And as much as I hate to admit it, you're a person too. At least I think you are. If you were gravely hurt, I couldn't just stand there and watch it happen. That's not me. That's not who I am."

_So what you're trying to say is_, he thought, as he stood motionless in front of her, _that I'm not special. That you running to me and crying out my name was nothing special. It was instinct. It was something anybody would do to anyone. It was dull and normal and meant nothing._

"Well, thanks," he said to her, although he felt the words carried nothing. His hope had been sucked out of him, leaving him with nothing but an empty social sentiment. He couldn't deny the cracks in his ego now, but Draco, never one to linger on a meaningless moment, was already back on his feet, trying to patch up the holes. Reclaiming his dignity. "Although next time I'd appreciate it if you didn't make such a fuss. I've been hit harder and I know how to take my hits. I don't need you to baby me like you do Potter and Weasley. They might enjoy your mother act but I personally find it emasculating and on par with the highest level of human mortification."

She looked stunned. But then, stepping back – away from him, away from everything, back into the shoes of an old world – something dark and familiar veiled her eyes. Her pink sassy mouth shrunk into a taut line.

"Next time," she snapped, "you can count on me cheering on the stands when you come crashing down. Just like old times. And don't you worry a single blond hair on your head – I'll be the loudest one there."

She'd turned to walk away, but then whirled back around, her hair whipping against her face.

"I knew you were a wanker, Malfoy, since the beginning. But I also made the mistake of thinking that maybe if people showed a bit of tolerance and kindness to you that you'd actually make the effort of being a decent person. So I let you stay in my flat when Harry asked. I didn't kick your inconsiderate arse out when you brought a girl home to shag. Now, even to your own admittance, I've saved your life, and yet you persist on still being the schoolyard bully version of you!" she shouted. "At what point does it end? Or do you really have no conscience?"

"There _is_ no end, Granger," he said back to her, hearing his own voice rise. "As for this version of me that you're talking about – you're wrong. There's only one version. You're daft if you thought there was a cuddlier version of me hiding underneath all of the hostility."

Her words were gritted out through her teeth. "_Why_ do you try so _hard_ to not be like us, Malfoy?" Then she sighed, throwing her hands up, frustrated. "Sometimes I see these glimpses of you – a different you, like a part of you that you try to keep stowed away from everybody, and it baffles me why that is. I don't get it!"

"Because," he said. "Those glimpses you see – that's not me. You may think it is, but it's not. It's a tiny, insignificant slice of who I am compared to the rest of me, which is every bit as bad as you think it is. So don't go on romanticizing this idea you have of me. You'll only embarrass yourself."

There were rare moments in Draco's life when he genuinely surprised himself, and this was one of them. The frigidity of his voice and the venom in his words was both impressive and shameful, and the way she flinched as if every one of his words physically pelted her made something inside him shiver and then die. Here he was, trying to reclaim his dignity, trying to retrieve his emotions from her inextractible hold. Parts of him felt rightly numb. But he couldn't deny the shaking in his core when he realized the shininess of her enraged eyes. He had made her cry. He, Draco Lucius Malfoy, now officially the lowest cretin that ever stepped a foot on earth, had actually made Hermione Granger cry.

She angrily wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. "Go fuck yourself, Malfoy. And then afterwards," she snarled, "find yourself a bloody new place to live."

ooo

**Day 90**

"What the hell happened between you two?" Potter demanded, echoing Draco's precise trail of thought for the past week, as Draco let him in. He turned around as Draco closed the door behind him, his hands in his pockets and looking entirely confused.

"Every time I try to even do so much as bring up your name, she shuts down completely. At least before she used to honor your mention with a colorful string of obscenities, but now she just goes on like she'd never even heard me in the first place. She's even threatened to stop speaking to me completely if I keep trying to bring you up."

Potter threw up his hands, collapsing down into the sofa. "And neither of you will talk about it. Which means this could very well go on for-bloody-ever," he whined.

"I told you, we had an argument," Draco said. "If you're such a stickler for details, you can rummage through my things for my diary. Though it'd be a waste of your precious time, seeing as how I don't even have my diary. The Ministry seized that too."

"It just seems so sudden, that's all. You seemed to be getting along. The bickering at me stopped. Maybe I was wrong," he said, frowning in thought.

Draco poured himself some tea. "Just one question, Potter – if you'd had an unoccupied, spare flat this entire time, why'd you make me live with Granger?"

The discovery of this fact that fateful night of his fight with Granger had been enough to stun Draco backwards. And want to rip Potter's head off to feed to some wild dogs.

"Because you couldn't be trusted well enough to live on your own, could you? You were in a bad state, Malfoy. You needed someone to look after you. Hermione was the first person that came to my mind. I'd trust her with my life." He sighed, leaning back on the couch. "And now she hates us. Both of us. Mostly you than me, but I'm still hated by association."

"Please Potter. Tell me about your plight," Draco said dryly.

"Anyway, we should be hearing from the Ministry sometime soon about your estate. In the meantime, stay out of trouble – and try to get back into Hermione's good graces, will you? I don't care what you fought about. I just care that you apologize to her, because I know what an enormous git you can be. Hermione has the highest tolerance out of all of us. The fact that you riled her up enough for her to kick you out. . ." He looked disappointed in him. Draco bristled in his seat. "Let's just say it's a giant step backwards."

Draco stirred his tea. "If you care about her that much, why aren't you with her?"

Potter scoffed. "What?"

"You know what I mean, Potter. Date her. Make her feel special amongst all of the other flavors of the week you take home every night."

"Malfoy, I love Hermione, okay? Like a sister. A twin sister."

The fact that Potter had to go so far as to specify exactly what kind of sister – twin-sister, only the sisterliest sister – delighted him. "Does she know that?"

"I expect so. Why does it matter? Since when do you care about my relationship with Hermione? I can vividly recall you saying that friendships were beneath you and that you would rather eat your own hand than be even partially-responsible for someone else's happiness. Bloody hell, Malfoy," Potter suddenly said, blinking. "Are you in love with her?"

Draco was rendered speechless, but before he could open his mouth to say something incredibly unkind to deter his inquisition, Potter had broken into peals of laughter and was patting him on the shoulder, leaving Draco in an enormous state of confusion. "Sorry, I couldn't even keep a straight face. Jolly good joke, mate!" He was still laughing to himself when he let himself out. "Bloody hell, that was a doozy. Cheered me up, though. You and Hermione! Unfathomable."

Draco heard the click of the door's lock, shaking his head. If only the poor sod knew. _Un-fucking-fathomable_.

ooo

**Day 97**

He never thought Weasley would show up at his doorstep – that is, unless it was to usher in the ultimate beatdown of the Armageddon he'd been threatening to bestow since their boyhood years at Hogwarts. So when he spotted that ginger head through the peephole, he carefully considered how able-bodied he would be after their interaction if he did, in fact, open the door. The odds weren't looking very good.

"Relax, Malfoy," Weasley said, gruffly. "I'm not here to make you wear your intestines as a necklace like I promised the other night. Some other time, maybe. But not today."

"And delay me the long-awaited honor? Fuck off, Weasley." But when he knocked again, Draco hesitantly unlocked the door and opened it just a crack, sending him a scrutinizing glare.

"You do know that if I'd wanted to really hurt you, I would have done that ages ago," Weasley pointed out. "Seeing as how you've been mooching off the goodwill of my best friends, you plonker."

Draco thought about that for a second, and begrudgingly acknowledging that he was right, opened the door wider. "Like it matters. I've cast a hex on the doorway so that anybody who crosses it without my permission will get their beloved little eyebrows singed off." He paused, waiting for him to say something. "You're not really waiting for an invitation to come in for some tea, are you, Weasley? I thought we were past that."

"I would never step foot within three meters of you voluntarily, prat, much less have tea with you."

"Then get on with it. And could you make it short? The ginger might be contagious."

He glared at him for a good moment before speaking on. "Heard you weren't living with Hermione anymore," he grunted. "Finally had enough sense to throw you out. I've been telling her to toss you from day one, but when she refused, I realized I didn't have to do much goading. You were perfectly fine on your own, weren't you, Malfoy? All I had to do was wait for you to muck it all up, for your real nature of destroying yourself and everyone around you to finally rear its ugly but forthcoming head."

"Thank you for that delightful commentary. You've exposed new wonders to me, Weasley. Truly."

"I just came by to threaten you," he said, firmly. "And to let you know that I heard."

"You already said that. Tell me, is there really nothing connecting the two halves of your brain? That's assuming there's anything to connect, of course."

Weasley cursed under his breath, his face turning as red as a ripe tomato. Draco quite enjoyed this. "I meant out in the hallway, you wanker. At the party. I saw you and Hermione leave, so I went to check on her to see if she was all right, and possibly to beat the bloody pulp out of you if needed. That's when I heard you two fighting."

Draco stared at him. "Again, I'm failing to see why this is of any importance."

"See, Malfoy, I don't trust you. That's why I've been watching you. And what I've seen deeply disturbs me." He paused, his shiny blue eyes thinning into what was supposed to be menacing look on his face. "I've seen the way you look at her. Hermione."

"You mean with utter indifference and barely hidden disdain?"

Silently, he wondered how it was possible Weasley could have picked it up within just two days of being around him while Potter was still laughing it off as if it was the biggest joke to ever hit wizarding London. Had the world begun to rotate backwards? Could it be possible he, in fact, never woke from his injuries from the Quidditch match and this was an alternate universe in which the reverse of everything happened? Weasley, actually a porous observer of minute details? Should Draco be checking if he had now been transformed into a hooker with a heart of gold (another Muggle movie he'd had the pleasure of sitting through at Granger's)?

Weasley didn't budge. "If you want her, you colossal tosser, you have to deserve her. Harry and I will make sure of that."

"Even if what you were accusing me of _were_ true, I think we all know Granger does what she wants." Leave it to Weasley to think she'd ever do whatever they said.

Weasley pointed his finger in his face. "So do we, Malfoy. So I'm warning you. Don't fuck about, or it'll be the last thing you'll ever do. With your intestines in their proper place, anyway."

Then Weasley, with an affirming scowl, began to walk back down the hallway, his Sasquatchean feet thudding heavily against the carpet.

"Your sudden interest with my intestines is more flattering than it is threatening, Weasley!" he called out at his back. "Just so you fucking know!"

ooo

**Day 110**

He could see up his mother's imaginary nose as she hovered above his head, inspecting him. "Depression does run in our bloodline, Draco, but at least they bothered to hide it with extramarital affairs and expensive alcohol."

Draco watched her as she came around to sit down on the sofa, lighting up her cigarette. He closed his eyes. "I'm not depressed. And you're not real."

"Son, I find that personally offensive," she said, moving her cigarette away from her lips. "I'm a loving memory. I'm here to guide you through the murky afterthought that is your life after your father and I passed on. Though I'm not doing such a good job, am I? Look at you. You haven't moved from that spot since last week. A Muggle would have finished an oil painting of you by now, and then have had it framed from three towns over by horse. Draco, I know you. This isn't you. You're a flamboyant rooster, not a wallflower sulker. You're a _Malfoy_."

Draco opened his eyes again, staring up at the blank ceiling, wondering how on earth this had all happened. Back at Hogwarts they had hated each other's guts with a passion that he often fantasized about hexing all of her hair off and then making her a stuffed animal out of it just for extra kicks. Even just a few months ago, he had thought her to be the most uninteresting person on the planet. Even the sound of her name would send him into a deep stupor. But now. . . now what? He stares up at the ceiling thinking about how her hair had smelled when he'd caught a whiff of it at the Pitch, like a pubescent boy who's just had his first look at breasts. It was another feeling entirely. It was agony. It was yearning. It was pathetic. It was totally, utterly human.

"There's got to be a cure for this," he said, unsure of whom he was talking to: himself or his imaginary mum. "This isn't who I bloody am. This isn't who I was meant to play – not some lovelorn idiot pining over someone so infuriating and unattainable. Not over someone like Granger."

She let out another puff of smoke. "There is one thing I've learned from dying, son, and it's that we all have these preconceptions of how our lives are supposed to play out. We think we know our destinies. We think we know a lot of things. The truth is that we don't. Listen to me, Draco, and listen close. This doesn't have to be as hard as you make it. It's simple: you find someone you love and you just have to have enough sense to never let them go. That's it. The secret to life."

Draco looked up at her, the ghost of his mum, the actualized loving memory of her – whatever the hell she was. "When did you get to be so sentimental?" he asked, baffled.

Narcissa smiled. "No, Draco," she said. "The question is: when did _you_?"

ooo

**Day 139**

The news that the Ministry was finally releasing the Manor and the possessions they hadn't seized to make up for the years his shameless father did not file taxes came as a great wave of relief for Draco. Finally, he could cut himself out of this mess. He no longer had to live in this never-ending soap opera. If he organized the rest of his life in a strategic manner, he would never even have to see or think about Granger again. That gave him hope.

Potter, however, was a different story as always. He wanted to celebrate the end of Draco's homelessness in a rambunctious fashion and dragged him to the nearest bar, as well as having invited the rest of his friends, including Weasley, who came only because "Harry told me you're buying everyone's drinks, seeing as how you've got your shit back and all. Just because I loathe every cell on your body doesn't mean I won't drink your booze." And then, of course, Weasley punched him in the chest.

"Look at that," Potter said to Draco, as he was still rubbing his chest and cursing under his breath. "I think he likes you."

"What, because he didn't shatter my ribcage?"

"Yes, exactly," Potter said. "Because he could have. He really could have. I was at the Burrow once and we were both reaching for the same bread roll during dinner. He nearly dislocated my shoulder."

Draco took a large gulp of his drink, scanning the crowd. "What a mesmerizing story, Potter. Care to tell it again? My ears weren't finished bleeding."

Potter grinned and gave him a manly pat on the back. Draco had enough sense not to recoil. After all, how much longer did he have to put up with Potter and his sanctimonious muppets? After tonight, he'd be home sodding free. So tonight. Draco could bloody well put up with tonight.

"You almost sounded like you meant it. Maybe there's hope for you yet, Malfoy. Just think of what that could mean for wankers everywhere."

That's when he saw her. She had just walked in through the door, scanning her eyes over the crowd. She said hello to a few people. Draco wondered if she knew what she was here for – or if Potter (this was, undoubtedly, the work of Potter and Potter alone) had led her here under some false pretense, like, say, that he'd died in a freak accident and this was his wake.

She grabbed a drink from the bar before she saw them. Her eyes landed on Harry first, her face relaxing into a smile, before spotting Draco. The change in sentiment was instantaneous. Her facial muscles froze and her eyes hardened, but she slowly made her way over anyway. Draco watched her closely, pretending she was squeezing through the people to get to him, and him alone – a fact he was prepared to take with him to his grave. He took a very long drink.

"Hermione!" Potter greeted cheerily. "We're happy to see you've made it. Aren't we, Draco?"

Draco pretended not to feel Potter's pointy little elbow jam into his side. "Granger," he nodded coolly. Acting cool and detached, Draco had realized at the start of this stupid party, was his only defense to this situation with Granger. He couldn't let on that she affected him like she did. That was simply not the Malfoy way.

"Luna's over by the bar waving me over. So I'll leave you two children to kiss and make up, hm?" he said, giving them both an expectant Let's-try-and-be-mature-adults-about-this look. He could tell Granger refrained from every bodily urge to roll her eyes at him as he then brushed past, leaving them in the crowd alone to fester in the tension by themselves.

"I didn't think you'd come. Thought you'd be too busy accumulating more beige-colored items for your soulless flat," he drawled, though it was without the edge he usually reserved for his Granger-motivated insults.

"I wasn't going to. In fact, I was adamant about not going. But Harry refused to leave my office until I swore to him that I would come to your party tonight, and he was distracting my coworkers with his glorious Quidditch stories." She paused for a second, watching his face. "Ah, and look. Greeted by a familiar look of privileged nonchalance and ungratefulness. You do never cease to surprise me, Malfoy."

He scoffed. "What? And start being decent and amicable? Then what would we fight about?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she said. "You and me, Malfoy – we'll always have something to fight about. We're too different. We're like oil and water." Her voice got just a decibel quieter, something pulling over her face that he couldn't read – a look he wasn't quite used to getting from Granger. He felt a dip in his chest. "Things like that never change."

He intently stared at her. "Is that a promise?"

She pressed her lips together. "It's a fact. We've proven it, haven't we? That even with the war done and the halls of Hogwarts far away, there are just some bridges that can't be rebuilt. Maybe because there just wasn't a bridge to build in the first place." She shook her head. "I've wasted a lot of energy trying to figure that out." She straightened herself up. "I just wanted to let you know that. I'm glad you have your Manor back. It means it won't be very likely we'll be running into each other anymore."

He felt a sting that continued to throb even long after she'd turned away and started heading back out, weaving through the people, leaving his party. And then, finishing off the rest of his drink with one toss back, he set it aside and followed after her.

The streets were damp and shiny when he walked out of the bar, the air still heavy with moisture from the afternoon's downpour. The cacophony from the crowded bar became faint background noise to the frigid stillness and silence of the outside world. He spotted her as she was walking down the street, and he walked after her.

"You know what I can't stand about you, Granger?" he called out at her back, his voice sharp and loud against the quiet, and she froze. "That you think you fucking know everything, about everyone. But you don't, do you? So you pretend so you can write them off as a bloody loose end finally tied, all neat and impeccable just the way you like, and you can slumber peacefully at night in the little self-righteous bed you've eagerly made for yourself. You do it for one reason, and one reason only: so you, out of all the other miserable souls out here, can feel good about yourself."

She whipped around, her eyes flashing. "You think this was a party for me, Malfoy? Having to look after you while you behaved like an ungrateful, whiny, spiteful little dog? Open your fucking eyes! Nothing about this has _ever_ felt good! Nothing about being around you has _ever_ made me sleep well at night!"

"And you think it was any different for me?" he yelled back at her, his words rough like sandpaper against his tongue. "I'm in fucking agony, Granger! Every time I'm around you, I can feel my skin crawling, like it isn't even mine anymore! You come around and it's like I don't even know up from down! And you think that's a fucking festival for me?"

Confusion fled across her face, chasing away the anger. "Malfoy, what—"

"I'm in love with you," he finally said, his throat tight and throbbing. "And it's all your fault. So own up to it. Take responsibility for something so unsacred, because I know I can't."

The moments crawled by painfully, like a needle dragging across his skin. He could feel his blood roaring in his ears, blanketing the tense silence that bore heavily on his chest. He could see the revolving shock on her face, and he felt angry at it. _Don't you know everything? Didn't you know this was going to happen? So take that stunned, innocent victim look off of your face, Granger. I don't buy it for one sodding second_.

"Malfoy. . ." she said, her voice barely a tremble in the air. "I don't know what to say."

_That you don't love me. That you can't wait for me to leave so you can laugh hysterically. That you hate me. That you can't even think of me without throwing up just a little bit._

It made his stomach acid churn uncomfortably and in a way that made something bile rise up his throat. "Then don't," is what he said. "That's the beautiful thing about living in this country, isn't it, Granger? You don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

The truth is that he had prepared himself for any lukewarm response of confusion and trepidation. Even so, that didn't mean it stung any less when it did come to pass. It still felt like she had peeled back his ribs and punched him right in the heart.

He went on, his voice low and strainingly measured.

"I know you're in love with Potter. I'm not stupid. Anybody with eyes and a bit of common sense can see that – but Potter can't. What does that say about Potter? Not that I'm badmouthing him. I owe him a lot. He actually likes me, which is more than I can probably say about you. But I have to be honest with you, Granger. He takes you for granted. I hate him for that, but I hate you, too – for letting him. For letting him walk all over you, day after day, and letting yourself shoot him those hopeful, pining looks when he's too blind to even notice them. _I _notice them, and it's taken me every ounce of strength and pathetically minimal self-control from giving you a fucking good shake to make you see that he's not worth it. Not worth the energy, the yearning, the waiting. Because I know that even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Because that's your decision – who to spend your precious time on. All I'm saying is that he doesn't get it. How special you are – because you are. In this incredibly annoying, infuriating way that makes me question every single fucking meaningless thing in this stupidly unjust world. And you shouldn't have to waste any more time doubting that."

He couldn't believe it. That he had just gone right out and said all of that. His pulse was on the fritz and maybe his head was on fire but he had meant every single word, which didn't exactly deter the fear that he knew he would soon feel creeping over him. The vulnerability. He had never confessed real feelings to anyone before, so the silence that greeted him afterwards was too overwhelming for him to handle. So he did what any real man would do: he left, and she didn't stop him, didn't even utter a sound. He knew that every single second of silence that he left tick by between them would only slowly strip him of his dignity, which was barely hanging in the balance even now.

He stumbled back into the bar, grateful for the senseless noise that swept over him. He ordered another drink and tossed that back – then ordered one after it, and tossed that back, too. He had half a mind to leave now and return to his Manor, where he could be alone, and far, far away from these idiotic, happy people that had absolutely nothing in common with him, aside from their unfortunate existence in the same senseless world.

"Tell me you apologized to her," Potter said, suddenly appearing next to him. "Tell me I didn't spend all that time in her office just so she could leave here in a huff hating your guts even worse than before."

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco said to the last man on earth he wanted to see right now. Really. He couldn't stand Potter before, fighting off evil while snarking off in their Potions classes like a glorified hero orphan, but now he just really wanted to forget he existed. He loved the girl that loved him. Wasn't that sad enough?

"Malfoy, honestly. I brought her here so that you two can finally let bygones be bygones, maybe even take a tequila shot or two together—"

"Potter, I'm really not in the mood to listen to your social project involving your childhood enemy and your boring best friend. Go gab about it to the ginger. Either one of them – or both, if your stars are smiling down on you."

"My _second_ childhood enemy. My first childhood enemy was Voldemort. Don't flatter yourself," he said. "But listen. I think she's still outside, so maybe if I pretend to have gotten seriously injured—"

Draco couldn't stand his blabbing on anymore. He'd be a saint this far, honestly, putting up with Potter meddling in his business, trying to force them together like a little girl and her dolls. So he punched him. Not brutally hard, just enough to shut him up, and perhaps to restore a little bit of the balance in the world and get out a bit of his pent-up aggression. Right in the face. And it felt heavens-parting-the-clouds brilliant.

It was the surprise, more than anything, that knocked Potter down. Even though his glasses were slightly askew and his jaw was turning an alarming shade of red. But he didn't have time to register anything else more, because the crowd had stopped to look on, and before he could explain that he just needed Potter to _shut up tonight about Granger_, he caught a glimpse of ginger hair and Weasley's iron knuckles were suddenly burrowing themselves in his jaw, sending him backwards with the force of a small explosion.

On the floor he clutched his jaw, feeling the reverberations of his punch buzzing painfully in his nerve endings. His eyes actually did water a little from the excruciating blow, and no, he would never tell a soul that his punch made his stomach careen in his body. He still had his dignity to think of, after all. The shambles left of it, anyway.

"_What _the living _fuck, _Weasley?" he spat, blood spotting the floor under him.

He wished significant moments of pain (such as these) came with warnings. Who would've thought that falling in love would end up causing him so much trouble? It was beyond ridiculous. In fact, he was convinced it was so ridiculous that there wasn't even a word created to grasp its full ridiculousness in the English language just yet. And there were what – more than a billion words in it alone?

Wait a minute. Here was a word: Pathetic.

Weasley shook out his hand, towering above him. "Well, that felt good." He looked around at the stunned crowd. "Drinks, anyone?"

* * *

Please review!


	5. Part 5

**A/N**: Thank you all so much for the reads and feedback! Your devotion and patience has been awesome, and as a reward, here is the final chapter 4 years in the friggin' making. It's been so fun writing this but now at least I can cross this fic off my unnecessarily-lengthy WIP list. Hurrah!

* * *

**Part 5**

**Day 142**

Draco had once heard the phrase "No man is an island" and thought about how his very existence (and ultimate goal in life) disproved that statement. After all, what was an island? A mass of land isolated in the middle of a large body of water, and – if untouched by Muggle globalization – was ideally self-sustaining and self-sufficient. An island felt no need to socialize with other islands or land masses (repulsive), felt no need to initiate nor keep a connection (overly sentimental), and felt no need to pretend or deny its very nature and essence as an island (unapologetic grace). Geographically, an island was just an island. It felt nothing.

Now that he was back in his Manor, Draco felt the need to rebuild his status as an island. It was both easy and difficult all at once, as per the usual character of life. It was easy because he was back in his place of comfort and childhood and the memories and feelings of both ingrained solitary living and familiarity brought him back to his old habits. But he still felt as if he was suffering from the hangover of having lived a different life in a different place for a while. Things happened to him there. And as much as he tried, he couldn't erase them, nor could he do so much as dilute them with indifference while they were still fresh on his mind.

"Klaus has been very loyal to Master while he has been away. Klaus has been giving the Ministry workers a very difficult time," his house-elf assured him when he returned. "Klaus is very glad they gave the Manor back to Master."

Klaus's was not the only familiar face that greeted him when he returned to his Manor. His old friend Blaise Zabini also stopped by, and they sat in his parlor smoking cigars and drinking scotch like how their fathers used to when they were young. There was a sad dull luster to it all, like seeing someone who used to be famous and was now just living off of the remains of a glamorous past life.

"They just gave me back my Manor as well," Blaise told him. "The smug bastards. Took a few things and cleared out nearly half my inheritance, but at least all that rubbish has been sorted." He breathed out, a billow of smoke snaking out of his lips. "Do you think our fathers knew this was going to happen to us?"

Draco poured himself another drink. The truth is that he was tired of thinking about his father. He doubted his father was thinking much of him right now, simply because the man was dead, and frankly he couldn't help but feel immensely relieved at that. Which was probably how the Germans felt about Hitler. He couldn't believe he was comparing his father to Hitler.

"Fuck our fathers, Zabini," he said.

Blaise nodded. "Well, at least everything's back to normal, right? We can go on with our lives like they were before. Hell, we could even pretend this never even happened."

Draco raised his glass to this albeit having worn out this argument in his head that it now sounded as convincing as it had been listening to Granger go on about not being in love with Potter. Draco, after all, had never been truly averse to faking it.

"To being an island," Draco said.

"Sure," said Blaise, shrugging. "I love islands. They smell like pineapples."

ooo

**Day 145**

He had just returned from a trip to Diagon Alley to Klaus letting him know that he had a woman sitting in his parlor, waiting for him. He slowly removed his damp coat, staring at his house-elf.

"Klaus, I said no visitors," he said, even though his eyes flickered to the doors of his parlor and couldn't deny that his heart had started beating faster than normal.

"Klaus knows Master's wishes, but Miss said it was important. Miss said she was your friend. Klaus thought Master could do with some friends after being gone for so long."

Draco rolled his eyes. Leave it to his autonomous house-elf to ruin his progress as an island. "Next time, Klaus, do as Master says, okay? Don't let anyone in unless I say so. Got it? And," he said, firmly, "if they say they're a friend, kick them out immediately."

Klaus nodded with his large eyes and took Draco's coat before Draco, sighing, made his way over to his parlor. He decided his first words to her would be to tell her to get out. She had ruined his life enough already. What was she doing here, anyway? He'd overheard her talking about his Manor once, and how it repulsed her because it stood for everything that was despicable about the human race. He'd excused that, however, because that was just how poor people talked. Take the Palace of Versailles, for example. He was sure all the starving peasants had said something along those lines at that time.

When he opened the door, there was, of course, Granger sitting there. She stood up when she heard him come in, and they just stared at each other for a silent second. He unfazedly took in her flushed cheeks as he closed the door behind him.

"Using our supposed friendship to weasel into my Manor isn't very becoming of you, Granger," he drawled. His voice had an unmistakable edge to it – what was it? Oh yeah, the harsh intonation of bitterness. It was the only way to mask the pathetic yearning he still felt in his bones when he saw her, or even did so much as think of her. Cover up the pitiable with the negative. If he was lucky she'd still be the same Granger and his complete rudeness would drive her away.

She smiled at him, though barely. "How else are you supposed to reach an island, Malfoy?"

That stunned him for a few moments, almost questioning whether Granger had suddenly attained the ability to read minds, but he quickly shook that off. He glared at her. "What are you doing here? Checking to see if I'm back to my old habits, drowning my sorrows in hard liquor? Do you need to smell my breath to check if I'm drunk, right this very moment?" He scoffed at her, crossing his arms. "Did Potter tell you to come here?"

It stung even when he said it himself.

"Harry doesn't even know I'm here," she said, her voice starting to get on edge. "I just wanted to talk, Malfoy. Is that so impossible with us?"

"I don't know, Granger – is it? We don't talk. We insult, hiss, growl, curse, and fight with each other. But talking? I wouldn't even begin to know what that sounds like."

In his mind, he could hear his unremarkable inner dialogue. _I hate you, please go away_. _I just need you to leave me alone so I can move on. Spare me the gentle letdown. If you really wanted to do me a sodding favor, you could move to Ibiza, or someplace I could never get to you. Because I hate the way you make me feel. Like for once in my life, I don't deserve the one thing I really want. And I can't handle that._

Her voice was quiet, almost sad. "That's not true, is it? We've talked. I can count the occasions on one hand, it's true, but they happened."

He looked away, clenching his jaw. "Spare me the fluff, Granger. If you aren't Potter's gopher, then why are you here?"

He tensed when she closed in on him, slowly, her eyes hardening from his frigid response. He was familiar with this look – but not all of it. There was something else in there too, the unreadable part, the part was he afraid to decipher if such a thing were even possible.

"You can't do this, Malfoy. You can't just spring something like you being in love with me out of the blue and then act all frigid and hateful. It's unfair."

"Go on, then," he said back at her. "Tell me how it's unfair. Tell me how you've spent weeks not sleeping, going over that night in fine detail. Tell me how you trace back your steps to figure out how it all happened and then, in a paralyzing mental breakthrough, realize that none of it matters anyway because it won't tell you how to sodding get _rid_ of it, would it?"

Her eyes were doing that thing again, as they flickered across his face. That whole doe-eyed, warm cinnamon, honey in the summertime thing. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He hated it. He hated that she could still affect him this way, even in his Manor, even on his own domain, even on his own fucking terms.

"Is it really so terrible, being in love with me?" she whispered.

He just stood there, unable to move. That was what telling the truth did to him. It made him grow roots.

He let out a silent breath to try and ease the mounting pressure in his lungs. "Yes," he said. "It is all that, Granger. And more."

She stepped back from him, as if stung. "Maybe I was insane to think that I could just come here to tell you that I miss you and that I'm sorry for my reaction that night and it'd all go just fine and dandy. Maybe thinking that was like asking for a fairytale." She turned around, as if heading out to leave, but then stopped and whirled back around to face him. He watched her with his heart in his throat.

"No, I need to say this. I need to say this to your face. You think it's hard for you? Wake up, Malfoy! You're not the only person here that felt things they thought they shouldn't have. You're not the only one conflicted by this situation. You want the sodding truth? Yes, I never thought I would ever like you. I never thought I would ever miss having you around. If someone would have come up to me months ago to tell me that I would dropping by your offensively large mansion to tell you that I miss your stupid prat head hanging around my flat, and that I've spent every night since then building up the courage to come here, I would have laughed them straight into the next calendar year. Then I would have also started to prepare myself for the end of the world just in case they were right."

She took a breath, her dark glittering eyes still fixed on him.

"But I'm here, aren't I? I'm trying to talk to you and I hate it. Because it's like asking a wall to come down knowing full well it won't. So don't feel sorry for yourself, Malfoy. Feel sorry for the girl foolish enough to try." She took another step back, shaking her head. "Good luck spending the rest of your life alone, Malfoy. I hope being an island turns out to be everything you ever wanted."

And then she walked out. Out of the room, out of the Manor, and out of his life. He should have felt relieved. He should have felt the reshifting of energies, the restoration of the balance in the world. He should have felt like the old Draco at the prime of his self-centeredness and effortless disregard for the feelings of others. Happy to see her go.

But he wasn't the old Draco. He needed to come to terms with this. It tore him up to see her go, maybe even literally it felt like, but his mind was still reeling from what she had revealed to him and by the time he had definitely understood what she had come here to do, and that yes, that night at the playground she had felt it too – that it all had been fucking real – he had run through the halls of his Manor to see Klaus, his incompetent house-elf, standing in the main doorway, alone.

"Miss is gone, Master," Klaus said.

And the funny thing was that she was. She really fucking was.

"She was never supposed to make it inside in the first place," he said under his breath.

ooo

**Day 148**

One of the perks of being back at the Manor was being able to fly again. He went for daily rides around his estate and sometimes wouldn't be back for hours. He'd done this ever since he'd gotten his first broom when he needed room to think, because even his vast Manor could be stifling sometimes. That was the thing, wasn't it? Gargantuan as it was, it still had walls, and walls had the tendency of adapting the illusion that they were closing in on you. What he needed in those moments was open air, not a single wall in sight. Just him and the sky.

While he flew he tried not to think about the incident in the Quidditch match against Viktor and his teammates, when Granger had been the first one to come to his aid. He tried not to think of it – which meant, of course, that he thought about it constantly. He even relived it sometimes in his head, trying to remember how it felt to be close to her again without worrying about its implications. Because that's what ruins things, doesn't it? Implications that punctuated every moment that might mean something. Maybe even the fear alone that some moments could, indeed, mean something – or could even mean everything. That a few mere seconds could change your whole life.

He entered the Manor, his skin still tingling from his morning ride, when he saw Klaus standing there, as if waiting for him. Draco had walked right past him, but then slowed down and backtracked when he saw Potter sitting in his living room.

"Fucking hell" was the first amongst many in the string of curse words he iterated.

"Don't get angry at your house-elf, Malfoy," Potter said, leisurely sipping from a glass like the great big ponce he was. "I insisted being let in. Plus, I'm Harry Potter. I'm famous and universally loved. The poor thing couldn't help it."

"Not here," Draco said, glaring at Klaus, who now only had the decency to look ashamed, bowing his head in shame. "How is it that the out of all the house-elves that belonged to my family, the Ministry chose to leave me with the single most incompetent one of them all?"

"Don't listen to him, Klaus," Potter said to his house-elf. "He has a tendency to say things he doesn't mean when he's cranky. Which, I imagine, has been a continuous thing lately. I apologize on his behalf."

Draco glared at Potter and commanded Klaus to leave, which he did so with another mumbled apology and a snap of his fingers, leaving the two of them alone.

"Malfoy, I think you know why I'm here," Potter said. "Hermione told me she stopped by. Well, not really told me, _verbally_, but I saw it all over her face. That's the thing about Hermione, mate. She's as transparent as a wet t-shirt sometimes. I can tell from a mile away when she's had a run-in with you."

"Don't tell me," he said dryly. "She wears the expression of one who has just lost all faith in humanity."

"Listen, mock her all you want, all right, Malfoy? I know you don't mean it. At least not anymore," Potter said. "The night after your party Ron let me in on your little secret. And maybe I was daft not to have seen it firsthand for myself, but when he told me, it made all the sense in the world. The punch, the tension, the eviction. Bloody hell! The thing is, I knew Hermione would come after you sooner or later once she'd gotten her head all sorted out. She's a good person that way. And I was hoping you'd prove us wrong for a change, and show her she had good reason to show up here. That it could be worth it, putting yourself out there sometimes, even for someone like you. Hell," he snorted, "for someone _precisely_ like you."

"I should have known you would have come here to lecture me on my behavior," Draco scoffed. "Like you're the sodding Head Boy of the fucking universe. I'm surprised Weasley isn't here, pulling out my intestines and using it as a feather boa as we speak. I'm rather disappointed, actually. He really made me think I had it coming."

Potter shook his head. "So that's how it's going to be, is it? You finally get your stupid Manor back and you pretend like nothing ever happened? Is it really that easy for you?" He said this in a way that clearly let Draco know he knew that it wasn't, which irritated him even more so.

"What am I supposed to do, Potter?" he snapped. "Gab about it to my girlfriends? Well? Go ahead, tell me what I'm supposed to do like you've proved you're so keen on doing." He sharply inhaled, running one hand through his wind-beaten hair. "Look, I think about it. A lot, okay? I can't help it. It's torture. I can't sleep, I've barely eaten, can't even do so much as a take sip of scotch without her sodding voice in my head – and I hate her. I do."

Potter looked a mix of both relief and resignation. "You don't hate her," he said. "You love her."

"Right now I can't really see the difference," Draco said bitterly.

"She's miserable without you. It's painful to watch, really. Who would have thought, right?" Potter chuckled ironically. "That you two would make each other the most miserable by being apart?"

Then he stood up to leave, giving him a serious look. "Listen. She came here to tell you that she missed you. She was brave enough to enter your scary Manor to tell you this, to tell you her personal truth on your terms. And then you let her walk out. It's simple as fucking day, Draco: if you didn't barricade that door with your own flesh to try to keep her from walking out, then you don't deserve her."

He paused to punctuate his monologue, ensuring Draco adequate time to absorb this, which Draco thought was a little much but this was Potter, who could pretty much do whatever he fucking wanted.

"Luckily I still have faith in you, despite the numerous ways you have disappointed me and the rest of mankind. We're holding a party for Hermione this weekend for her birthday, at her flat. Eight o'clock. Stay here in your depressing little hole or show up and possibly put an end to your misery. But do what you want. Settle this, and be sure about it."

Then Potter came around, heading towards the door. "I'll show myself out. By the way, this Manor would be great for parties. With some proper lighting it might not look like a sad yet ornately decorated Turkish prison."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't you have some poor girl to shag and poison with false hopes of becoming your girlfriend?"

Potter held up his hands. "I'm going, I'm going, you wanker. I know how incredibly possessive you are of your pretentious little house. Though it wouldn't kill you to seem a little grateful, you know. A man could go mad without a bit of social interaction every now and then. That is," he said, "assuming you _are_ a man. Ron thinks you're the illegitimate child of Grendel and Hitler."

And as Potter left, he couldn't help but think of what his ancestors would have to say about this – A Muggleborn (that he was in love with, no less) and Potter having dropped by his house all in the span of a week. They would be horrified, of course, and would condemn him for tainting the family property. As if Lucius hadn't done that enough already, allowing the Manor to fall into the Ministry's hands and letting his only son be evicted to live with people who probably cried tears of joy sometime in their lives and hugged whenever they felt like it. The horrors Draco'd had to live through under their roof. They were simply indescribable.

But that was the good thing about the dead. They could no longer tell him how to live his life. As long as he didn't walk down that part of the Manor, anyway.

ooo

**Day 150**

Draco Lucius Malfoy was ten years old when he flew for the first time. He still remembered the day with startling clarity – it had been sunny with rare clear blue skies, with his father expectantly standing with him on the grass. Even then Draco had known the height of his father's expectations for him, and when he tried to clutch the broom firmly in his hands his palms had been moist with the eager desperation to please him and his stomach had been tied into uneasy knots with the fear of what would happen if he didn't. When he looked down at the ground and when he looked up at the endless sky all he could see were the consequences that awaited him, whether he were to fail or succeed.

He finally got a good grip on his broom and concentrated with every living cell in his body, begging to be airborne. Then he opened his eyes to see that he was. His father was growing smaller and smaller in his view, being swallowed up by the immense green of their lawn until he was a mere speck on the earth and for a good second he remembered thinking how nice it was to see his father this way, so small and insignificant and so _ordinary_, and could hardly remember why he had been so afraid of him in the first place.

He felt the warm sun on his skin and felt the crisp breeze in his air and even though he still felt the fear of making one small mistake and plunging down to his death, he wished he could stay there forever. Far away from everything, with the sun on his face. And yet even in the pure undeniable beauty of that moment, he looked down at his father, this almost unrecognizable figure on the ground, and instead of feeling the scrambling panic for validation, he felt security. He knew that if he were to pick up his hands and allow himself to free-fall from so high up in the sky, his father would not let him touch the ground. He knew it at that moment and knew it for the moments after that. That Lucius Malfoy may have been a wayward, terrible person and a manipulative, glory-whipped father, but that he wasn't all bad. Somewhere deep inside there was still something that connected him to the rest of humanity. And that it was small but it was still enough.

As Draco knocked on Granger's flat door and waited there impatiently for her to answer, he realized that this moment was a lot like him learning how to fly for the first time. He felt the fear and recognized the rarity of this moment and physically felt all of his senses racing. And in his mind he could almost make out her metaphorical figure underneath him, waiting to catch him if he fell – that is, if he wasn't too late. Timing, he knew, was everything. But she had done it once before and that had been no accident.

Realizing that there was nobody home to answer, he stood there for a second, thinking, before it clicked. He took the stairs to the top floor, went down to the end the hallway, through another door, and saw that the door to the rooftop was still unlocked by his former design. Taking a breath, he pushed the door open and stepped out.

And there she was, all right. Sitting on one of the lawn chairs, gazing out at the night scenery, a glass of wine set down on the floor by her right foot. He took a deep breath.

He took the seat next to her. She didn't even do as much as glance at him as she took a sip from her wineglass. Behind the glass, however, he thought he could make out the most miniscule smile.

"You're late," was all she said. "The party ended four hours ago. It was lovely, you know. Harry did a great job at organizing it. It went so perfectly it was almost surprising. I suppose that's what happens when there isn't someone there who's always looking for a fight."

"If I went to your party, Granger, I'd actually have to talk to all those dreaded people," he told her. "I would've spent all night pretending to be interested in their stories, all the while silently scanning the crowd for you, waiting to steal you away when you weren't being smothered by all of your sappy friends so that I could drag you outside to be alone. And then just when I had finally started to say what I really needed to say, Potter or Weasley in all of their protective glory would come barreling through the door to brutally sever any mere semblance of alone time we might have had. So I figured I'd be smart and come afterwards, when they were all far, far away."

By this, what he really meant was, _I didn't want to waste any of my time with any of those sods. I came here tonight because all I really care about is you._ As he waited silently he watched her face to see if she had caught on to it at all.

Finally, she looked at him. She delicately set her glass down on the cement and when she looked up she took his breath away, honestly. Both poetically and literally. She had dressed up for this occasion, wearing a red dress and impressive heels that were now discarded in a heap beside her chair, showing him the soft pink undersides of her feet, ankles tucked one behind the other. Her hair had been loosely pinned up but a few strands of cinnamon brown hair had fallen, hovering beside her chin. It struck him how long it had taken for him to realize how naturally impressive she was, something that he had unfortunately mistaken for plainness before. She was stunning in a way that comforted him and made him nervous, all at the same time.

"So are you going to tell me why you're here? Or do I have to ask?" she said, quietly.

"I came because I have a gift for you," he said, smirking at her as he dug into his pocket. He held out a flat, palm-sized box. "Happy birthday, Granger."

She took it, giving him a curious look, before lifting up the cover. It was a key. Rusted and large and unlike any key she'd seen in her life. Her look of confusion only deepened, and it occurred to him that she might be expecting this to be a joke.

"It's to your stupid little Muggle playground, near your house," he explained. "You told me that when you were younger you always felt like it was yours. Now it is. Officially. You can swing on those blasted things like a demented woman-child for the rest of your life if you wanted."

She couldn't help but smile at him, then. Even Granger, in her predisposition to hate him after his shitty treatment of her the last time they'd been face to face, could not deny the niceness of his gesture. Because that was what this was, wasn't it? A gesture. A big fucking gesture. Something that said, _I'm here, I want you, and this is how I can show it without having to butcher the English language_. And he could tell, just from looking at her, that she got it. She understood. Did he ever have any doubt, though? This was Hermione fucking Granger here. The smartest witch that had ever graced the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and sodding Wizardry. Even now he had a feeling that she might have known this would happen even before he did.

"Draco," she said, being very serious, "is this what you really want? Because you have to tell me now. I'm done playing games. If you're in, you're in until it becomes unbearably horrid and even then there is the vague possibility that you're going to have to gnaw yourself out to escape alive."

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh because it was so fucking true, what she said. About how they both knew without a doubt that _these feelings_ were not for the fainthearted, that if they were to really let this happen, it would probably consume them completely and that to get out alive they would have to do so painfully and lose bits and parts of them in the process. And he had this feeling that he should be afraid – more afraid than he actually was – at the concept of this all-or-nothing kind of endeavor – of which was certainly unprecedented in his life – but it was hard to be when she was looking at him that way. Like it almost hurt her to hope so much. He wanted to laugh at that too because he knew the feeling. God help him if he didn't know that feeling like it was the palm of his hand, if it hadn't hovered him like a raincloud, if it hadn't kept him company on sleepless nights. He knew that feeling, all right. And he knew it intimately.

"Granger," he drawled, wanting to grab her and shake her to her senses. "Did I just give you the sodding key to your favorite Muggle playground or didn't I?"

She stared at him for a second before she finally laughed. And it was a sort of glorious sound, one that subdued softly and slowly when he reached up and traced his hand against the curve of her jaw. She didn't flinch or edge away but actually leaned into him, and suddenly he had this bizarre feeling that things were falling into place in just the right way. Something calming and quiet fell over his soul like a fresh dusting of snow. He just had that feeling.

"This," she said, softly. "It sort of feels like a dream, doesn't it? Unreal."

And as he finally kissed her he mumbled to her that yes, it felt exactly like that, but better. Because this was real.

And it was. It just really fucking was.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Don't be afraid to holler and let me know what you thought!


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